


Lilacs in Bloom

by Molias



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Communication, Cuddling & Snuggling, Explicit Consent, First Date, Flirting, Flowers, Gardens & Gardening, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Romance, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:54:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27334504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molias/pseuds/Molias
Summary: Hank starts to feel a bit silly as he enters the garden gate and sees the other visitors: young professionals looking for a quiet spot to eat their takeaway lunches, nannies chatting while the toddlers in their care peer wide-eyed at a cluster of crocuses, a group of elderly women strolling slowly along the path. He feels out of place, and as he stops to admire a huge patch of daffodils, butter-yellow and delicate pale peach, he has the sudden conviction that it's ridiculous for him to be here at all. For him to want to appreciate something beautiful for a moment.Hank ventures into a public garden on his lunch break and runs across an android gardener who's friendly and more than a little forward. He's not looking for romance, but maybe he's stumbling into it, all the same.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 55
Kudos: 127





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In February 2020, I wrote a short fic about gardener Connor; in October, desperate for something sweet and a little fluffy while grieving, I decided to return to this AU and expand upon the story. Chapter 1 is the original fic, and subsequent chapters are the continuation.

Hank's therapist had told him to find a place he could feel calm or centered, somewhere he could go that wasn't work or a bar or his too-quiet house. He stares at the plant on his desk, the poor thing still wilted a bit after months of neglect despite his recent efforts, and thinks about the public garden near the station. He's never been; it was created fairly recently, within the last decade, and he hasn't had the time or the inclination to visit parks or the like, lately.

Today, though, it sounds like it might be nice.

He wanders over on his lunch break; it's only a few blocks from the station and while the air is cool, the early-spring sun keeps him warm enough.

Hank starts to feel a bit silly as he enters the garden gate and sees the other visitors: young professionals looking for a quiet spot to eat their takeaway lunches, nannies chatting while the toddlers in their care peer wide-eyed at a cluster of crocuses, a group of elderly women strolling slowly along the path. He feels out of place, and as he stops to admire a huge patch of daffodils, butter-yellow and delicate pale peach, he has the sudden conviction that it's ridiculous for him to be here at all. For him to want to appreciate something beautiful for a moment.

Still. He came all the way here, and he'd feel even sillier turning around and leaving immediately. So he picks a direction and starts walking. Once Hank's far enough down the path he chose, the sounds of the street and the excited children near the entrance fade away. It's rare for him to be anywhere other than his own home and be surrounded by such quiet.

As he rounds a bend in the path, Hank's hit with an intense, sweet scent wafting from somewhere nearby. It's familiar, he thinks, but he can't quite place it.

He follows the scent to a pair of bushes covered in cone-shaped clusters of deep magenta flowers. They're tall enough that he can lean in and smell them without bending over and he does so, being careful to avoid the bees making their way from flower to flower.

"Shit, that's nice," he says aloud, after a deep inhale. The scent is perfumey and thick, and reminds him distantly of playing in the yard at his great-aunt's house, years and years ago. "I wonder what the hell these are?"

"This is an early-blooming lilac varietal," a voice answers from behind the larger bush, and Hank just barely manages not to yelp in surprise.

"Jesus, you startled me," he says, stepping around the lilac bushes to get a better look at whoever's there. A young man in a Detroit Parks polo shirt is crouched next to the bush, clippers in hand. He's pretty, Hank thinks, and curses himself for it. No one like that needs Hank drooling over him, even subtly.

But he really is cute, damn it, and tall, Hank realizes, as he stands up. "I apologize for surprising you," the man says cautiously. "My intention was to be helpful."

Hank sees a flash of yellow as the man turns to face him more directly and realizes, in a second moment of surprise, that he's an android. Not a face model he recognizes, and certainly not a standard groundskeeping model. He sets the thought aside; it doesn't matter, really, and he's been doing his best lately to look at androids as people. Just people.

Seeing a face he doesn't recognize makes it easier, in many ways. No memories or experiences to pin to it. "Eh," he says, waving off the android's apology, "don't worry about it. Guess I know what this is now, anyway." He takes another sniff, this one from the bush the android is in the middle of pruning. "Lilac, huh. Can you--can you smell this?" He looks at the android's carefully neutral face. He looks wary, and Hank wonders if he's being an ass. "Is that a rude question?"

He smiles, and his dark (gorgeous, Hank thinks, despite his best efforts) eyes light up. "Oh, not at all! I can't smell the way you can, exactly, but it's still a pleasant experience."

"Oh, well," Hank says. "That's good, at least." He flounders, not sure of what else to say. "Do you, uh. Do you work here?" Hank asks the question, of course, while staring at the man's shirt, which is emblazoned with a park logo. His knees are stained with fresh soil. The answer is obvious. "Shit, of course you do, sorry. I'm not great at conversation, most days."

"It's fine," the man says. He laughs, but it doesn't seem like he's laughing at Hank. "People rarely try to make conversation with me at all." He sets his shears down in the bucket next to the lilac bush and steps closer to Hank. "But yes, this is my job. Taking care of the plants, keeping things neat. Answering questions, if visitors have them, but." He shrugs. "As I said, I don't get a lot of those."

Hank scratches the back of his neck and wishes he had another question to ask. 

"I haven't seen you here before," the man says, cocking an eyebrow as he looks at Hank in a way he hasn't had anyone look at him in a long time. Surely he's imagining it. "Are you new to the area?"

"Hell no," Hank mumbles. "I've been here forever. I work down the street a bit, just. Trying something new on my lunch break." He sighs as he looks at the rows of tulips flanking the path ahead and the small grove of cherry trees just starting to bloom across the clearing. "I'd rather keep walking than go back, honestly, but I should probably get going."

"Oh! All right," the man says. He looks a little disappointed, but Hank understands the feeling of having to get back to work when you've found a way to slack off for a minute. It's not about him. "I hope you'll come back," the man says. "Maybe I'll see you again."

"Maybe so," Hank responds. He gives the man a nod and turns to go, but he steps to the side, neatly intercepting him, and holds out his hand.

"I'm Connor, by the way," he says, and Hank has no choice but to take his hand and shake it.

"Hank," he says. Connor's hand is smooth, not roughened by work the way a human's would be despite the labor he does. Hank absently notices how long and delicate his fingers are, and immediately tries to put the detail out of his mind. He wants to say something polite, that it was nice to meet him or that he hopes to see him again, but the words all stick and die in his mouth. Connor's just another lovely thing in a garden of lovely things, something Hank doesn't quite feel like he's allowed to admire.  
(Not just a thing at all, of course, but Hank feels even less proper looking at Connor the way he wants to than he would a beautiful flower.)

"Well, Hank," Connor says cheerfully, pulling Hank back out of his thoughts, "I'm glad you stopped by." He reaches down for the shears and Hank takes this as his cue to leave but before he can take more than a step away, Connor's next to him again, holding out a small sprig of lilac flowers and deep green leaves. "Here," he says.

Hank frowns. "I'm pretty sure you're not supposed to do that. 'The garden's for everyone,' and all that, right?"

Connor shrugs. "My hand slipped," he says. "I was trimming the dead branches, and I made an error. Perhaps I was distracted." Then he winks, so blatantly there's no way Hank could be imagining it, and offers the flowers again. "It would be a shame for this to go to waste, wouldn't it? Just because I made a mistake? Someone should enjoy it."

Hank snorts and reaches for the lilacs, but instead of handing them over, Connor moves in even closer and tucks the stem into the breast pocket of Hank's old coat. He barely realized he had a breast pocket, but the flowers tucked inside are all the evidence he needs to know it's there. 

Connor fussily arranges it just so, and pats Hank's pocket once he's done, as if to make sure his work is secure. The tip of his tongue pokes out between his lips as he adjusts the flowers to his liking, and Hank forces himself to look away until he finishes and takes a step back. "I do hope I'll see you again, Hank," he says. "I'm never in the same place, of course, but if you come back, I'd like it if you said hello."

"I'll look for you," Hank says, and he isn't sure he really means it, but the smile on Connor's face when he says it is sweet enough that he knows he won't be able to resist.

He turns with a final wave and ambles back to the office, not caring that some of the guys look at him funny when he walks in with his head bent down so he can catch the scent of the flowers in his coat. Hank rinses out an old mug, fills it with clean water, and pops the lilacs in it first thing when he gets to his desk.

"Where'd you get that?" calls one of the young detectives Hank never remembers the name of, Ells or Elias or something. "You got an admirer?"

"None of your goddamn business," Hank grouses, and the detective laughs and walks away, but he nudges one of the glossy leaves with his finger and remembers how close Connor had stood to him, and that bold, too-obvious wink. "Shit, maybe I do," he says to himself. He's already stopped pretending he won't be back the next day. 


	2. Chapter 2

The sprig of lilacs on Hank's desk wilts before he makes it back to the garden again; he isn't sure if it's because he forgot to change the water after the first day or if it's because they don't last long once they're cut.

Even so, he enjoys them for the few days he can; it's nice to have a splash of color on his desk and a waft of sweet scent to greet him in the mornings when he drags his ass through the door. Nice, too, to have an excuse to think about the android—Connor—who handed them to him.

Hank still can't quite figure out what his deal was, no matter how much he thinks about it (and he thinks about their brief conversation, and the look in Connor's eyes as he gave him the lilacs, more than he thinks is probably appropriate); he seemed friendly, maybe even flirtatious, but...Hank's had a few days to second-guess his initial read on the situation, and as time goes on it gets harder and harder to believe the android intended to come off that way.

Hell, he doesn't even know if androids care about flirting and shit like that, or how different it might be for them, if they do. For all Hank knows, standing really close to a guy while you tuck flowers into his lapel and wink at him might be as impersonal as a handshake, to Connor. He has no fucking clue.

Hank doesn't want to be a pathetic old man sniffing around after Connor, he really doesn't, but he had said he'd like to see Hank again, and it had sounded genuine at the time, so it can't be that bad to say hello if he happens to run into him again, can it?

Plus, as out of place as he'd felt at first, Hank had enjoyed his time in the garden. As much as he hates to admit it (and as much as he dreads telling his therapist she was right when he sees her next week), having a place to spend time outside of work and home that isn't a bar is what he needs. Maybe in the summer, when the garden's open later, he could even go after work some days, when he needs time to decompress before going home.

That's thinking a bit far ahead, though, Hank thinks, as he makes his way there for the second time. He's given himself more time by bringing his lunch with him; there's a bag containing a slightly-too-ripe banana and a sandwich tucked under his arm, and he figures he'll find a nice shady spot to eat once he's there.

_Lunch first_ , he tells himself. _Sit and eat and take in the beauty of nature, or whatever, for a few minutes, and then if you want to look for Connor and you think you can do it without being a total creep, fine._ None of the handful of benches scattered around the open area just inside the garden's entrance are unoccupied, so Hank turns down a different path from the one he'd chosen during his earlier visit and heads in search of a less-crowded area to eat his lunch. It's a chilly day, a surprising burst of cold at the end of April, but the sun is bright, as are the flowers lining the path, so Hank can't really complain. He prefers the chill over the sticky heat of summer, anyway.

There's a cluster of elegant, pink-flowered trees ahead, and as Hank gets closer he sees a petal-strewn bench beneath the largest one. Hank wonders, as he approaches, what kind of trees they are, and he half-expects Connor to pop up from behind one and announce the answer, but of course he doesn't. There's a little sign, though, proclaiming them to be saucer magnolias. They don't look like the huge, white magnolias he's seen down south, but he figures the sign knows better than he does what's a magnolia and what isn't. He sits down with a shrug and unwraps his sandwich.

Only a few other visitors stroll by as Hank eats; it looks like the garden's a popular destination during the day, but that many people stick to the grass lawn and flower beds near the entrance, at least during their midday breaks. Mostly, he's alone in his little magnolia corner, but that suits him just fine. When he'd come to the garden before, Hank hadn't really had a chance to sit and enjoy it; being distracted by Connor was just fine by him, but having confusing encounters with attractive men isn't technically the goal of his visits.

He's here to just fucking exist in a place that's calm and quiet and free of the temptation to use alcohol to put a damper on his thoughts. "You have to let yourself feel things," his therapist had said, when she'd gently suggested he find a place like this to spend his time. And she's right, Hank knows she is, but even though he's been trying to do it for months now, it's only gotten a tiny bit easier.

Still, progress is progress, he thinks, as he shoves the last bite of banana in his mouth. It's slow, but it's something, and after a few years of nothing at all, he'll take it. When he's finished his lunch and given himself a couple minutes to sit in the dappled shade of the magnolias, Hank no longer has an excuse to put off looking for Connor. He grimaces as he brushes his hands on his thighs and stands up; it's been a while since he's tried to—make friends with someone? Is that what he's doing?

Whatever it is, he feels woefully out of practice. It's easy to picture himself walking up to Connor and making an ass of himself, or even finding out that he hadn't really wanted to see Hank again at all. He thinks about the wink, though, and the flowers; even if he doesn't understand how androids think or approach social situations, he's pretty sure that particular fear is unfounded. He may not be sure exactly what Connor's all about, but Hank's pretty sure he won't be annoyed to see him.

What's left, then, is finding the guy. it's a big garden, larger than Hank had realized at first, and if Connor's working today—which isn't a given, he knows—he could be anywhere. Hank looks at his watch and grimaces; he'll have to leave in about half an hour, which doesn't exactly give him time to look everywhere. He may as well pick a direction, though, so he follows the path towards what a sign tells him is the "Native Plants Garden" and hopes for the best.

Soon, Hank finds himself in front of a wide bed of flowers winding beneath scattered oak trees and leading farther back towards what looks like a dogwood grove. He doesn't know much about flowers, really, but he has to admit these are particularly pretty; there are clusters of bright white, three-petaled flowers with dark leaves and taller, two-toned blue and white flowers that are so intricately-shaped Hank has the brief thought that they're artificial. Android flowers, he thinks absently, picturing a tiny LED in the center of each one.

"Ridiculous," he mutters, and as he faces back down the path he realizes there's someone working at the far end of the garden, planting more blue and white flowers from a tray of potted seedlings in a wagon next to them. He thinks at first it's Connor—they're wearing the same jade green Detroit Parks polo he'd worn when they met, and even in the bright sun Hank can make out the faint flash of an LED—but as he gets closer and the android glances up at him, he can clearly see it's someone else. Still, Hank thinks, they might be able to help him find where Connor is, if he's even around today.

"Good morning," the android says, as Hank approaches. They smile politely at him, but there's a tightness around their eyes when Hank stops instead of passing by. He supposes it makes sense that they'd be wary; he knows androids have plenty of reasons to be cautious around humans, even now.

"Hi," Hank says, aiming for friendly and casual. "Sorry to bug you, but is, uh, do you know a guy who works here by the name of Connor?"

"Sure, I know Connor." Their smile doesn't falter, but they don't offer anything more.

"Do you know if he's working today? Where I could find him?"

They wait a long moment before nodding. "He's here, sure," they say, cautiously. "Are you a friend of his?"

"Yeah, I—" Hank tugs at his beard, considering. "I guess you could say that, sure. He asked me to come say hi next time I was here, but it's a big place, you know? I have no idea where he might be."

The android seems satisfied by Hank's answer; their smile shifts a bit, into something smaller and more sincere. "He's up by the pond, I think," they say. "At least that's where he was headed about an hour ago, so he should still be there."

"There's a pond?"

They laugh at Hank's surprise, and point back the way Hank came down the path. "It's in the northeast corner of the garden," they say, "but if you turn around and turn left at the first intersection, the path will take you right to it. It's not far."

"Thanks," Hank says. "I appreciate it."

The android nods but seems eager to return to work, so Hank leaves them to it and retraces his steps until he finds the point where the path splits; sure enough, a sign indicates that the left-hand path leads to the duck pond and a rose garden. He wishes he'd saved some bread from his sandwich.

The path to the pond is lined with cherry trees just starting to bloom, the petals a scattering of pink and white against the dark branches. Hank wants to walk slowly and let his mind drift, but his impatience wins out; the longer he takes to find Connor, the easier it is to second-guess himself. He tells himself he's just trying to be efficient and make the most of his limited lunch break as he strides down the path, and he's almost able to believe it.

Hank only walks a few minutes, just as the android had said, before the pond comes into view; when he reaches the end of the tree-lined stretch of the path he can see it glittering in the midday sunlight, at the bottom of the gentle slope ahead of him. The paved path splits in two, circling around the pond, but a smaller path of inset stones leads down to the muddy shore. And, it turns out, to Connor.

He's just at the water's edge, bent over and fussing at something or other among the plants growing in the shallow water. Hank doesn't want to bother him if he's busy, but he's here, and Connor's here, and it seems silly to turn around and leave. Hank makes his way down to the pond and clears his throat when he's only a few feet away from where Connor's examining the plants. "I managed to find you," he says, when Connor turns his head. "Hello again."

Connor breaks into a smile and fuck, Hank thinks, he really is pretty. "Oh! Hello, Hank!" Connor exclaims. He gives the plants one last look and hurries over to Hank, boots squishing in the wet ground beside the pond. "I'm so pleased you decided to visit me." He extends a hand when he reaches Hank, but before he can hold out his own hand to shake, which is what he assumes Connor's going for, Connor grabs his forearm and gives it a squeeze. "Or," he says, sheepishly, "perhaps you're visiting the garden itself. I shouldn't assume."

"Assume away," Hank says, trying not to think too much about Connor's hand, or the fact that it's still resting lightly on his arm. "It's both, today; I wanted to see a little more of this place, but I was hoping to run into you, too. I asked one of your coworkers where you might be, and they pointed me in this direction."

"I'm glad they did," Connor says. He gives  Hank's arm another squeeze before dropping it and waving him over to a nearby bench. "Do you have a minute?"

"A few, yeah," Hank says, although he's pretty sure he needs to leave soon. He glances at his watch and shrugs; if he's a few minutes late getting back, he'll be fine. 

"This is my favorite part of the garden," Connor says, once they've settled on the bench.

"Why's that?" Hank asks. "I mean, I get it, the water's nice, but I'm curious about why you like it so much. Out of the whole garden, what's different about this spot?"

Connor stares at him for a moment, eyes wide, and Hank wonders if anyone's ever asked him why he likes something. If anyone's bothered to ask him what he likes at all. He knows he's extrapolating, or projecting, or something, based on very little concrete information about Connor, but he thinks he might be a little lonely.

"I like the turtles," Connor says, and it's so goddamn charming Hank can't help but laugh. "I do! They sun themselves on the logs over there—"he points at the opposite end of the pond, where Hank can make out a couple logs partially submerged in the water with a half-dozen turtles resting on top"—and I enjoy watching them, while I'm here. Beyond that, though, I find aquatic plants to be particularly interesting. I've planted two new kinds of water lily this spring, and I'm eager to see them bloom in the next few weeks."

"I wasn't—" Connor shifts restlessly next to Hank, turning away from him to look out over the water. "My original function wasn't to be a gardener. Having something I've chosen for myself feels important, and I suppose beyond that there's something satisfying about having a favorite aspect of this choice I've made. I do love the water lilies and the turtles, and the blue flag irises that will bloom along the water's edge soon, but in a way you could say this part of the garden is my favorite because I decided so; the act of choosing it is part of what made me love it."

"I think I get it," Hank says; he's not sure he does, not entirely, but he sees the general shape of what Connor's said. "I guess if you spent part of your life not having a choice about what you want to do or what you enjoy, just making that choice would be enough to get you more excited about whatever you're choosing."

"Exactly." Connor smiles, dark eyes shining, and Hank wonders if he was sitting quite so close before. "One thing you should know about me, Hank, is that I tend to become very attached to the things I like."

"You do, huh?" Hank feels very warm, suddenly, despite the chill in the air. "That's—" surely he means the garden, the turtles. The irises. Not anything else. "That's good."

"How about you?" Connor asks. "What's your favorite part of the garden?"

"You," Hank manages not to say. He wonders if Connor can tell, anyway. "I, uh, I haven't seen all of it, yet," he manages, after a moment. "I should probably spend more time here before I decide."

"I think that's an excellent idea," Connor says, "as long as you keep an eye out for me when you do."

"Yeah, okay," Hank says with a laugh. He doesn't quite get why Connor's so insistent on seeing him again, but he's not going to argue with it. Connor's interesting, he thinks; he's interesting and handsome and he seems, for some reason, to enjoy Hank's company. Of course he'll keep an eye out for him. "I'll make sure to. Do you go on break at a certain time, so I don't interrupt anything?"

Connor shakes his head. "If you have no biological need to eat, the law doesn't require you to get a meal break, or any break at all." He says it lightly, like he's making a joke, but Hank hears the bitterness behind it. "To be honest, I'd be reprimanded if my supervisor saw me sitting here with you."

Hank glances around, looking for anyone keeping watch, but he doesn't see anyone. The only observers at the moment are the handful of turtles across the pond, and they're entirely uninterested in the conversation he and Connor are having. "Shit," he says, "I don't want to get you in trouble. I thought you said part of your job was talking to people?"

"Only if they have questions about the garden," Connor says. "If someone wants to know what a particular plant is, or how to get to the rose garden, I'm here to inform them." He rests his hand lightly on Hank's arm where it's draped along the back of the bench. "Flirting with handsome visitors is not part of the job description, I'm afraid."

Hank frantically, foolishly fumbles about in his mind, trying to think of what sort of handsome visitors Connor's managed to run into, before Connor's raised eyebrow and the warmth of his hand on Hank's arm clue him in. "Is that—" Hank coughs, clearing his throat. "Is that what we're doing?" He's pretty sure he's never sounded less suave in his life, but Connor doesn't comment on it.

"I can't speak for you, of course," Connor says. His hand slides down Hank's forearm until the tip of his little finger brushes his bare wrist. "But that's what I'm doing." His easy confidence fades just a bit when Hank doesn't respond, and he pulls his hand back. "I'll stop, if it makes you uncomfortable."

"No, hey, don't—" Hank catches Connor's hand as he starts to pull away. They both stare, for a long, silent moment, at Hank's hand wrapped around Connor's. Hank can't remember ever touching an android before, not directly, and he can't help but rub his thumb gently over the back of Connor's hand, marveling at the feel of it: his skin is soft, stretched over the delicate artificial bones of his hand, and it's warmer than he'd thought it might be.

"I'm not uncomfortable," Hank says, eventually. He tears his gaze away from Connor's hand and sees him watching him, eyes soft, mouth slightly parted, as he waits for Hank to continue his thought. "You don't need to stop, I just—" he's not sure how to explain his hesitation. "I'm not used to that kind of attention from anyone, these days."

"That's a shame," Connor says. "You had my attention from the moment I saw you."

He leans a little closer, and Hank mirrors him, almost without thinking. Connor laughs softly, a nervous-sounding chuckle, but before Hank can ask about it he drops Hank's hand like it's burning him and shoots off the bench, his posture stiff and formal.

"Hey, what the—"

"I'm going to answer your question now, sir," Connor says very quietly, leaning on the 'sir' as hard as he can, "so that my supervisor, who just turned off the main path and is headed this way, will see me doing my job and not holding your hand."

Hank nods and resists the urge to crane his head around to watch their approach; instead he leans back and adopts what he hopes is a mildly interested expression while Connor dives into a cheerful, if somewhat stilted, explanation of the care and attributes of the different water lily varieties he planted in the pond this season.

"I'm sorry you weren't able to see them in bloom today," Connor concludes, as Hank hears the muffled footsteps of someone coming up behind them, "but perhaps if you're able to visit again in the future, you'll have better luck; they should be flowering quite soon."

"I'll do that, thanks," Hank says, hauling himself up from the bench. The appearance of Connor's manager is clearly his cue to leave, and he's long overdue back at work anyway. He manages to keep himself from taking Connor's hand again, or touching his shoulder, or—Christ, he can't pretend isn't thinking about it—wrapping him up in a hug on his way out. He wouldn't want to push for that anyway, surprise supervisor visit or no, but the impulse is there, strong enough to surprise him, and he files the thought away for later. 

"Later" comes that night, after Hank returns home from work. He'd stayed a bit later than usual, to make up for his late return from the garden; it's important to him, after his transfer within the department, to put some amount of effort into not being a fuckup, into showing folks that he's taking his job seriously. He'd come close to blowing up his career entirely, and he's still rebuilding his reputation; it won't be ruined by a long lunch break, of course, but he knows it can't hurt to put the extra time in.

And, sure, another hour dealing with paperwork might have been dull, but it wasn't an hour spent at home, drinking pop while wishing it was a beer and wondering what the fuck he should do about the hot android who apparently has a crush on him, which is of course where Hank eventually winds up, slumped on the couch in his underwear and monologuing to Sumo while he blinks lazily at him from the floor.

"Who just comes out and says that shit?" Hank asks him. "'I'm flirting with you, you're so handsome, oops now you're holding my hand,' what the hell was all that?" He drags his palm over his face. "Does he need his fucking robo-eyes fixed? Why the hell would he be interested in me?"

Sumo huffs and rolls over, clearly uninterested in providing further commentary on Hank's situation. "Yeah, thanks, buddy," Hank grumbles at him.

The question won't leave his mind: why is Connor flirting with him at all? Hank has no idea what sort of interest androids have in romance or relationships, although he figures, once he thinks about it for a moment, there's no reason to believe they have a unified opinion on these things any more than humans do. Does flirting mean an interest in dating? In sex?

He imagines, for a moment, being on a date with Connor. He pictures them strolling along the riverfront, Connor's soft, warm hand tucked into Hank's, or Hank's arm slung over his shoulders as they walk. He remembers how Connor had watched him, mouth slightly open, as Hank had held his hand, and imagines tugging on it to pull him forward, close enough to lean in and meet Connor's mouth with his own. He pictures—

Fuck.

He pictures himself as a disappointment, too old, too fucked up, too worn down to be worth Connor's attention. _I've apparently had his attention from the moment he saw me_ , he thinks, remembering what Connor had said earlier, but he doesn't understand why.

"He doesn't even know me," he tells Sumo. "Not really." Hank doesn't really know him, either. He knows Connor loves water lilies and turtles, that he enjoys the scent of lilacs, in whatever weird androidy way he has of smelling things. He knows Connor's cheeky enough to flirt with a man he just met, and that he likes physical contact. And shit, that's not much, but Hank also knows, despite this, and despite the undeniable weirdness of this whole situation, that he likes Connor a hell of a lot for someone he just met.

That he'll probably like him more, if he gets to know him better.

It's easier to think about that than to consider the opposite side of the coin, the potential disaster of Connor learning more about Hank, so he tries to set that thought aside for now.

He thinks instead of the surprising warmth of Connor's hand, the curve of his mouth, the look he gave Hank when he leaned forward to—to do what?

Hank lets himself fill in the gaps, in a self-indulgent moment he'll feel guilty about later: he remembers Connor's nervous laugh, his soft smile, and imagines placing a hand on the back of his neck to pull him closer so he can kiss him on the secluded bench by the pond. 


	3. Chapter 3

What Hank really wants, he decides the next morning, is to have a real conversation with Connor, more than what the two of them can snatch in the brief overlap of Hank's midday break and Connor's unsupervised time. A stolen moment or two each day sounds romantic, sure, but it's not particularly efficient, plus Hank knows his schedule doesn't actually allow him to sneak out for a long lunch every day. The rest of the week, in fact, is too busy for it, and Hank groans when he gets home Friday night and wonders if he's missed his chance.

There's no reason to assume Connor's schedule is like his own, he decides in the middle of Sumo's late-night walk; if he isn't given breaks, the sad truth is that he might not get weekends either, and at the very least he knows the garden's open on the weekend so it must be staffed, then, as well. Hank doesn't sleep well—not because of Connor, he tells himself, not because he's anxious or excited about seeing him again, but just because he has trouble sleeping sometimes, and he isn't drinking to put himself to bed anymore—so he finds himself walking through the garden entrance at 9:30, just after it opens, with a large cup of creamy coffee in his hand. As before, he has no idea which direction to go if he wants to find Connor, or if he's even in the garden at all, but he shrugs it off. Today, he isn't in a hurry. He can walk through the entire place if he wants; that's what he's supposed to be doing with himself, anyway, isn't it? Getting out of the house, spending time with his thoughts.

He realizes he'll have to tell his therapist, at some point, that he did what she suggested. That it probably means he'll wind up telling her about Connor, too. He might not be ready for that, yet, especially since he still isn't sure what there is to tell.

For the first time, Hank notices the large map posted just inside the gate and gives it a glance, to see what areas he still hasn't come across. There's the rose garden that he remembers seeing a sign for on his way to the pond; it's just past it, in the far corner, with a hosta garden, whatever that is, curving around the north side of the pond. The native plant garden he'd seen the entrance to earlier that week seems to take up most of the western side of the garden as a whole; Hank decides to circle around to that later and takes the path that will lead him to the roses and the pond first.

It's the same path that takes him past the lilac bushes he'd come across on his first visit to the garden, barely over a week ago, and as he approaches them he can't help but think about how close Connor had stood when slipping the sprig of lilacs he'd cut into Hank's jacket. He steps off the path to stand between the two bushes, now even more thick with blossoms than they'd been before, and finds a cluster of bumblebee-free flowers to bury his nose in. The scent is thick and heavy; if he were smelling it in a soap, or a perfume, he'd think it was too much, too floral and sweet, but in its raw state, wafting out of the profusion of flowers, it's perfect. Hank keeps an eye out for Connor as he walks, but he takes his time to take in the rest of the garden, as well. The path he's on is lined with other fragrant flowers, lilies and daffodils and a small bed of unfamiliar ruffly flowers that a small sign tells him are peonies. He sinks down onto a bench in the middle of the peonies and closes his eyes for a minute, focusing on the wild swirl of scent on the breeze. He's not familiar enough with any of the flowers here to pick them out individually; the combined fragrance is confusing and overwhelming, but it's nice, too. It's early enough that there's a damp, grassy smell underlying everything.

Hank breathes slowly with his eyes closed and sips his coffee. He used to go hiking sometimes, decades ago now, and while he's smelling sweet flowers now, and not the crushed pine needles of the forests upstate where he used to hike, somehow he's reminded of those long-ago mornings when he'd pull up to a trailhead drinking shitty gas station coffee to get himself going early enough to avoid the worst of the midday sun. Sitting in the shade with hot coffee and a cool breeze that smells like the outdoors brings him back, just a bit, to that time, to that feeling. Wanting to get outside just to navigate his body through a quiet space, knowing that the best way to untangle a messy thought is to pick at the knot slowly while his feet are moving. He'd gotten too busy for hiking long ago, and then the rest of his life had filled in that space: work, relationships, marriage. Cole.

And the grief, the self-hatred, the alcohol: they'd filled in the rest, had multiplied and expanded to fill in every space he had, had cracked open whatever there was in Hank's life that was fragile or vulnerable and rushed in to fill the void that was left.

Hank's still trying, now, to figure out what to do with that empty space as he cleans the worst of himself out of it. How to patch up whatever's still worth keeping.

He realizes, eventually, that he's been leaning back in a rickety park bench for a good fifteen minutes, mostly with his eyes closed, while he thinks a lot harder about how he's feeling, about what still hurts and what feels more like a deep bruise than the stab wound it used to be, than he has in a long time. It feels—he isn't sure he can say it feels good, not when there's still so much pain there, but it feels better, somehow. Better for him to be aware of what he's feeling, certainly.

Hank presses the heels of his hands against his eyes and groans softly before he grabs his coffee and hauls himself off the bench, determined to keep moving before he loses his entire morning to navel-gazing. It's easy to let his mind wander when he's walking, but staying alert for Connor and focusing on his surroundings keeps his thoughts from going too off-track after that. Hank isn't exactly ready for any major emotional breakthroughs today, especially given the conversation he wants to have with Connor. One thing to worry about at a time, he tells himself. Don't go overboard, just because you think you're doing a little better these days.

Hank finds himself approaching the rose garden before long; unlike some of the other gardens, which are a bit wild or artfully asymmetric in their presentation, this one is laid out meticulously, a spoked wheel revolving around a trellis covered in old-growth vines at the center. Only some of the bushes are in bloom; Hank doesn't know much about roses, but he assumes it's still a bit early for all of them to be flowering yet. He ambles through and takes a look at what's already in bloom; there are huge double blossoms in deep red and magenta, bursting with perfume, yellow roses that fade to coral at the edge of their petals, white roses opening as wide as Hank's palm, and, covering the central trellis so completely the wood is hardly visible, a cascade of pale pink wild roses. 

This is, apparently, a popular area of the garden; Hank notices more people here than he's seen anywhere else since he arrived. A small child buries his face into low-hanging flowers while his older sibling tries to remind him to check for bees first. Two women, probably twenty years older than Hank at least, walk arm in arm down the rows, pointing out their favorites. A group of teenagers takes turns posing for photos underneath the trellis of wild roses. Hank smiles at them and gives them space; he doesn't want his disheveled ass to ruin anyone's photos. He may have put a little extra effort into his appearance this morning, sure—just because he may as well, if he's getting back into leaving the house for something other than work, and not because he's trying to impress anyone because that would be ridiculous—but Hank's neater-than-usual is probably anyone else's fashion-disaster-in-the-background-of-my-otherwise-cute-picture, so he gives the kids their space.

He decides, too, as he exits the rose garden and continues down the path, that it's not his favorite. It's lovely, of course, and he's sure it'll look even better when more roses are in bloom, but the geometric layout doesn't appeal to him as much as the looser, wilder design of much of the rest of the garden as a whole. He knows the wildness, the seeming randomness, is a design choice on its own; every part of the garden has been planned and crafted with a particular purpose in mind. Hank thinks of the scattering of moles on Connor's face, supposed imperfections that were surely placed on his skin with great care. It feels rude, or at the very least invasive, to wonder about how and why he was made. What his original purpose was. He'd told Hank, hadn't he, that he wasn't created to be a gardener; what purpose, then, was he initially given? Why did he walk away from it?

Hank isn't sure these are questions he should ask. Certainly not yet, at least. The path, once Hank rejoins it, soon curves behind the pond; if he squints he thinks he can see the bench on the other side that he and Connor had shared for a brief moment. If there are turtles enjoying the morning sun on the logs Connor had pointed out, Hank can't spot them, but he does see a handful of ducks lazily gliding across the water.

Hank stops for a moment, once he reaches the top of a small slope, and looks down the hill to the pond. He can see why it's Connor's favorite part of the garden; he wants to reserve judgment about favorites until he's seen it all, but he thinks he understands why it appeals to him.

Hank's thinking of Connor, of course, and hoping he'll run into him, but even so he isn't prepared to hear an "oh!" of surprise and turn to see him staring up at him from where he's kneeling on the ground. "Oh," is all Hank manages to say in response. Connor's kneeling among clusters of dark green and white leaves, dappled by sunlight passing through the trees overhead. His LED flashes yellow for a short moment, then it cycles slowly to blue, a gentle, pulsing glow.

He's beautiful. "Hi," Hank says, after another moment. Everything he'd thought of saying if he ran into Connor seems to have fled from his mind. "I wasn't sure if—"

"I thought I'd scared you away," Connor blurts out.

"Huh?"

"I was worried that I'd made you uncomfortable. I know you said you weren't, but I also understand the desire to smooth over an awkward situation with reassurances." He stares down at his hands, folded tensely in his lap. "I know I have no reason to expect you here at any particular time, but you had to leave so quickly, and I didn't see you for a few days..." he shrugs and smiles up at Hank. "Perhaps it was silly of me."

"What, to worry I wasn't coming back?" Hank says it like it's a joke, because of course he was always coming back, but he wonders, as he says it, if Connor means it was silly to hope for Hank's return at all. To hope for a favorable response. He takes a step closer to Connor, taking care not to crush any of the plants surrounding him. "I meant what I said. You haven't done anything to make me uncomfortable. Surprised, maybe, by some of what you've said to me, but not uncomfortable. It's not—" he huffs out a laugh and shakes his head. "It's no hardship to have a guy like you hit on me."

"I wasn't avoiding you, Connor," Hank continues, when Connor doesn't respond. "I guess it was good to have a couple days to think, but I would have come by if  I could. I can't always get away when things are busy, just like you don't have a lot of time to talk here, at least not if someone's breathing down your neck like the other day."

"I understand," Connor says; he's still smiling, but there's a hint of sadness there, as well. It looks like resignation, a sign of an ongoing hurt he's used to. When, Hank wonders, has anyone made time for Connor?

"Hey, I'm not saying—" Hank steps closer still, considers sinking to his knees next to him, and thinks better of it. He grabs Connor's hand. "Come on, I'm too old to get down there with you and it feels weird to tower over you like this." He hauls Connor up, surprised by how sturdy he his; what on earth is he made of, to be so heavy? He overcompensates, tugging hard enough that Connor staggers once he's up, coming to rest with one hand braced on Hank's chest.

"Hello," Connor says, sounding suspiciously breathless for someone who, as far as Hank knows, doesn't have to breathe in the first place.

"Hello, yourself," Hank replies. He exerts what is truly an impressive amount of self-control and doesn't settle the hand not currently holding one of Connor's low on his back to keep him close; instead, he takes a half-step back, squeezing Connor's hand once before he gently lets it go. "Anyway," he says, sure he's blushing and extra sure Connor's noticed, "I'm not here to say I'm too busy to see you. Or that you scared me off, or whatever."

"Good," Connor says. "I'd hate to think I did that."

"I keep coming back, don't I?" Hank says. "But Connor, we—we don't really know each other, not yet, and it's hard to do when we get five minutes at a time when I can scramble down here on my break and hope no one catches you socializing." Connor's face falls again, and Hank scrambles to finish his thought. "So I figured I'd ask, uh, are you working tomorrow? I don't know what kind of time off you get."

"It's irregular," Connor says, and the same frustration that crept into his voice when he talked about his lack of breaks is back. "I don't currently have the luxury of a set schedule, but yes, I'm off work tomorrow."

"Okay, great. How do you feel about dogs?"

"I love dogs," Connor says, with an intensity Hank hadn't been expecting. "I haven't met many personally, since they aren't allowed here and few of my neighbors own them, but they're wonderful."

"Well fuck, that's good to hear," Hank says. "If you don't have anything else going on, then, would you want to come to the dog park down by the riverfront with me? And my dog, of course. If that's not, I don't know, too much park for you, maybe on your day off you want to be inside, or—"

"You have a dog," Connor interrupts.

"Big old thing, yep," Hank says. "His name is Sumo. I just thought—I don't know, I thought maybe you'd want to meet him, and we could take some time to get to know each other for real. It's fine if you don't, I just figured I'd—"

"Of course I do," Connor says, sounding almost offended that Hank had raised the question at all. "Of course I want to spend more time with you."

"And my dog, apparently," Hank mutters.

"And him as well," Connor agrees. "But, Hank, yes, this is—yes. I'd love to."

"I was thinking afternoon," Hank says. "I woke up too damn early today, should probably let myself be lazy tomorrow. I can pick you up, if you want."

"You're sweet," Connor says, "but I can take a bus there, or a cab. I'll be fine."

"You sure? I don't mind, I—"

"Hank," Connor interrupts. He squeezes Hank's bicep, then lets his hand roam up to his shoulder and over just far enough that his thumb brushes at the bare skin at the hollow of his throat. "You can take me home afterwards, if you like. But I'll meet you there."

"Yeah, okay," Hank says. He's ready, in that moment, to agree to anything Connor suggests. "You're sweet" swells and echoes inside his head, and he wants to hear it again. Connor slides his hand down until his palm is laid flat over Hank's sternum. His fingertips graze his bare skin and Hank tries to remember, how long it's been since anyone's touched him like this, like they're drawn to him. Like they can't help but reach out.

Hank's drawn in, as well; he leans forward into Connor's touch.

"I'm so glad you came to see me again," Connor murmurs. "And glad I didn't scare you off, after all."

"It takes a lot to scare me off," Hank says. He knows he's more likely to talk himself out of something good than to be scared away, but he doesn't want to get into that. If they're lucky, Connor won't ever have to learn that about him.

"Your heart's racing," Connor says. His lips part as he gazes at Hank, and he presses his hand more firmly against his chest. Warmth seems to radiate from it, a welcome comfort in the cool morning.

"Well, you're—" he falters, a little embarrassed that Connor noticed at all. The look Connor's giving him, intrigued and calculating and a little sultry, isn't helping him calm down any. "You're right there, touching me, so." He shrugs.

"Hmm." Connor rubs two fingers in a small circle on Hank's chest, watching closely for his reaction. "I like having this effect on you."

"Jesus," Hank huffs.

"I need to get back to work," Connor says, "but if you want to keep me company for a while, I'd like that." His fingertips linger on Hank as he steps back, tracing one more slow circle before he drops his hand.

"Yeah, I—" Hank clears his throat. "as long as I won't get you in trouble, hanging around."

"It'll be fine for a while, as long as I'm keeping busy," Connor says. "Here, I'll get back to weeding, and you can tell me about your dog." He sinks back down and gazes thoughtfully up at Hank as he picks up his weeding tools. "Hmm," Connor says again. Hank's learning to like that sound.

"What?"

"Just admiring the view," he says breezily, as he pulls a handful of weeds and tosses them away. Hank keeps Connor company while he weeds the rest of the small shade garden; the low, broad-leafed plants scattered about the area turn out to be the mysterious hostas he'd seen mentioned on the sign at the garden entrance.

"They aren't as flashy as some of the flowers," Connor says, as he pats a large, white-striped leaf, "but I find the foliage striking on its own. Most of these will bloom in a few months, and I'm looking forward to that, but to be honest I suspect I'll prefer them like this."

"Were you not working here last summer, or just working in another area of the garden?" Hank realizes, as soon as he's asked, that he's probably stepped in something—Connor's already told him gardening wasn't his original function.

"Sorry," he says. "I guess you wouldn't have been, huh? You said you were supposed to do something else, before." He winces and scrambles to apologize again. "I don't want to bring up anything you don't wanna talk about, I'm sorry. I—should I not ask about any of that at all? Your life, uh, before things changed, I mean." Hank feels pathetic talking around the issue, but he doesn't want to say the wrong thing, either. Is it better to hint at the android revolution, at deviancy (which might itself be an offensive or upsetting term to androids for all he knows), than to name it outright?

Connor's LED flashes yellow, but he offers Hank a small smile as he responds, which eases his mind somewhat.

"You're right that I haven't worked here long," Connor says. "I was hired just after the turn of the year." He pulls several large weeds, seemingly with great satisfaction, before he continues. "To answer your other question, though, I'm not averse to discussing my life before I knew it was a life at all, you could say. I don't know that all of it is easy to explain, and it isn't particularly pleasant. But—"

"You don't have to," Hank starts to say, but he falls silent when Connor shakes his head.

"Of course I don't have to, Hank. You said it yourself, though: you want to know me better. I want you to understand more about who I am. I don't mind telling you."

"All right."

"Not now, though," Connor says, "when I'm almost done weeding this garden. If you like, I can tell you a bit more tomorrow."

"I'd like that," Hank says gently. "As long as you still want to. If you decide you'd rather just pet Sumo, that'll be fine with me."

"I can pet Sumo at the same time," Connor says, which Hank has to admit is an excellent point.

"I'll warn you in advance, I don't have the best track record of talking about myself. Not about shit that matters." Hank turns to look out at the pond, where the midmorning sun has turned the water to a shifting pool of silver. "I'm working on it, but I can't promise to be quite so eager to share."

Connor holds a hand to Hank, who grabs it reflexively, staring at it for a moment before his brain catches up and he helps pull him to his feet. Connor doesn't need his help, Hank knows, but he's happy to pretend he does as an excuse for a moment of contact. Connor apparently appreciates the excuse as well. He bundles up the piles of weeds he's pulled and deposits them into a nearby wheelbarrow before he returns to Hank, standing only slightly closer than might be considered proper.

"I can be patient," he murmurs. "I'm nosy, I can't deny it, but I won't push too hard."

"Or," Connor says, wryly, "perhaps I should say I won't be offended if you tell me to fuck off when I do push too hard by mistake."

"Honestly, sometimes I need a push," Hank says. "I'm a big guy, I can handle it."

"You are," Connor agrees. "I'm sure you can handle quite a bit."

Hank wonders how he was ever unsure if Connor was flirting with him or not, considering how often he says shit like this. It's flattering, even if he isn't quite sure how to react, and he does his best to cover his awkwardness with a laugh and a smile, and by stepping forward to close the small distance between them; he doesn't want it to only be Connor reaching out to close that space. "Hey," he says, settling a hand on Connor's shoulder, "I know you gotta move on to take care of other things, so I'm going to get out of your hair." He pats his shoulder gently, resisting the urge to cup Connor's cheek in his hand, or pull him to his chest, or any number of things it's pointless to deny that he's already considered. "But I'll see you tomorrow, okay? And we'll have more than a few minutes to talk."

"Yes," Connor says. The sunlight filtered through the leaves overhead catches his dark eyes, highlights a mole high on his left cheek. "Hank, I want—" he sighs and closes his eyes.

Hank takes the opportunity to admire how long and delicate Connor's eyelashes are, as they sweep down to his cheek for a few slow seconds. "What is it?" he prompts. He wants to know. Already he feels a pull, a desire to give Connor what he wants, if he can.

"I'll ask tomorrow, I think," Connor says, finally. He leans his cheek against Hank's hand on his shoulder.

"Good." Hank knows if he doesn't leave now, he'll hang around all morning, getting in Connor's way or causing problems for him with his boss, so he reluctantly steps away, hand dropping back to his side. "I'll, uh, I'll see you then? At 3?"

"I'll be there," Connor says. "I'm looking forward to it. And to meeting Sumo, of course."

"I'll tell him to be on his best behavior," Hank says, and with another step back and an awkward wave, he sets off.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Barenaked Ladies voice] IT'S BEN

Hank takes a slow, wide path through the rest of the grounds after leaving Connor, although he doesn't pay particularly close attention to any of the flowers or foliage he passes by. It's all lovely in a distant, indistinct sort of way: a green, pleasant background to his thoughts.

And his thoughts are—the farther he gets from Connor, the more time he has to think about their plans for the next day, the more it sinks in just how badly Hank wants things to go well, wants to establish some sort of connection to Connor deeper than what they can build in stolen snatches of conversation, the easier it is for doubts to creep in. For Hank to remember how many relationships he's let fall apart in the past few years, and to worry that he doesn't have his shit together enough, not yet, to avoid doing it again.

It's not helpful to think like this, he knows. He can even admit, to some extent, that it isn't fair to himself, considering the effort he's put into clawing his way out of the hole he'd dug himself into, after Cole's death, but even now it's hard to convince himself it's worth putting forth the effort to be kinder to himself. It comes and goes, the self-loathing that used to be ever-present, but Hank feels it prickling at the back of his mind as he makes his way back to the entrance. With it is the impulse to respond in the traditional way: pick up a bottle of cheap whiskey on the way home, drink enough to stop thinking about how much he's worried about disappointing Connor, and usher in the inevitable moment by being so sick and hungover he misses the date entirely.

He won't do it—he clenches his fists, letting his nails bite into the meat of his palm and reminds himself, over and over, that he won't—but the urge is there. He wonders if it'll ever leave.

Instead, he texts Ben as soon as he gets home.

>I have a date tomorrow, what the fuck

>don't want to screw it up but

>what are the chances I can manage that

>christ at least I dont have his number so I can't cancel

He throws the phone on the couch and goes to change; by the time he returns, Ben's texted him back.

**> >A date! That's great, don't you dare cancel.**

>fuck, I won't, I just don't know how well it can go

>I haven't done this in years, you know how it wound up last time

**> >Yeah, but I know how much things have changed since then.**

**> >You want to talk for real? I'm free right now.**

Hank stares at the screen and sighs. There's part of him that doesn't want to intrude on Ben's Saturday with his melancholy bullshit, but he knows he wouldn't offer to talk if he wasn't up for it. And, oddly enough, he realizes he does want to talk about it. Ben's had Hank's back more than just about anyone else for the past six months; he's more than earned Hank's trust.

It takes so long for Ben to answer his phone that Hank wonders if he changed his mind about talking at the last minute, but he does eventually pick up, laughing and out of breath. "Sorry, Hank," he says, "Kenzie had a kitchen emergency just before you called. I had to save some crepe batter from spilling everywhere."

Hank hears Ben's daughter shout "I had it UNDER CONTROL!" in the background and can't help but laugh a little, himself. "Sounds like she didn't need you at all," he chuckles. "What's she making today?"

"A crepe cake, which is, as far as I can tell, the fussiest, most obnoxious recipe possible, but if she's willing to put in the work, we won't stop her."

"You just want an excuse to eat something you're too lazy to make."

"Of course I do!" Ben exclaims. "You know how worthless I am in the kitchen, and Alan doesn't like desserts, so if my daughter wants to make a cake I am not going to stand in her way."

They spend a few minutes catching up; now that Hank doesn't see Ben most days at work, he's a little less aware of what's going on in his life. He had stopped asking about Kenzie, for a few years; even though he cared about her, of course, and wished her well, Hank hated the bitterness he felt when he looked at other people's children and wondered why they got to live, when Cole didn't. He wasn't proud of that reaction, but it had been impossible to tamp down, for a long time, and it seemed easier to avoid the subject altogether than to feel guilty over that flash of anger.

Now, though, it's good to hear about her baking projects and junior roller derby tryouts, and about a weekend trip they'd taken earlier in the month to visit Alan's parents. Hank's struggled before with how well-adjusted Ben's family seems to be, but now he doesn't feel jealous of him at all; he's just happy for him. Glad his friend has a good husband and a good kid.

Ben tries to apologize, eventually, for talking his ear off, but Hank shoots him down before he can get started. "Seriously, it's fine," he says. "It's good to hear how you're doing, and it's keeping me from getting too caught up in my own bullshit."

"You want to talk about your bullshit? What's got you so worked up over this date?"

"I hardly know what I'm doing," Hank says. "I haven't been on a date in what, a decade? Something like that. I'm a lot less of a catch now than I was then."

"Someone agreed to a date with you anyway," Ben points out, "so it sounds like they think you're enough of a catch to say yes."

"That's the thing, Ben, he's—he seems like he's really into me. Flirts like crazy."

"So what's the problem?"

"The problem is that he barely knows me. We've only spoken a few times, and I can't help but think that when he learns more, he's going to want to bail."

"He might," Ben says, and even though Hank said it first, it stings a little.

"Hey," he protests, but Ben cuts him off.

"We both know it," he says. "Some people can't handle dating someone who's gone through serious shit and come out the other side. If this guy can't handle it, and can't see who you are now, fuck him."

Hank makes a non-committal noise. Ben's probably right, but it's hard to drum up any anger at the thought of Connor not wanting to spend more time together once he learns more about Hank. Disappointment, sure. But he doesn't think he'd blame him.

"It just feels nice," Hank says, "having someone act excited to see me. Not even acting, I guess, I think he really was excited when I saw him this morning."

"And you don't want him to lose that excitement."

"I don't."

"Then go have a good time tomorrow. If you come at this date like you gotta apologize for being who you are, it'll be over before you can get things started at all. Let yourself have fun. I don't know, get laid, maybe. If this guy's so into you without knowing you that well, you have to assume he thinks you're hot."

"I—" Hank thinks back to every excuse Connor's found to touch him. How close he tends to stand. "Shit, maybe he does."

"Check the expiration dates on your condoms before you—"

"Jesus, Ben, I know how condoms work," Hank sputters. "I don't—I don't think we're going to need any, we're taking Sumo to the dog park, for god's sake."

"You never know," Ben says. "It doesn't hurt to be prepared."

"The thing is," Hank says, a little ashamed he hasn't mentioned it yet, "Connor's an android. So I'm not even sure if I'd even, uh, need to use condoms. Shit, I don't even know how any of that works for them. For him, in particular."

Ben's silent just long enough for Hank to get uncomfortable. "An android?" he asks, finally. "Not what I expected from you."

"Hey, I know I was a bastard about them," Hank says. He's not proud of it, not really sure what to do now about the things he said, back when it was easier to blame his problems on an android than to accept that sometimes things were shitty and miserable for no reason. "I might be in a little over my head here, but so far he just seems like...I don't know, just like a regular person, you know? He's earnest, and sweet, and maybe a little lonely, but there's nothing fake about him."

"Alan's friend Will is dating an android," Ben says. "I haven't met her myself, and now for the life of me I can't remember her name, but the two of them seem to be doing well." Hank hears a low voice in the background, and Ben's muffled reply of thanks. "Ginger, that's right," he says. "I'm glad Alan can remember names, because I sure as hell can't."

"Anyway," Ben continues, "maybe your Connor is worrying right now that you won't be up for dating an android, once you understand more about what you're getting into."

"Huh." It's a good point, one Hank hadn't considered. "You might be right about that."

"But you still want this date to go well anyway, knowing he's an android and knowing there's a lot you don't know about how things might go between you two?"

"All right, you've made your point," Hank grumbles. "Yeah, I still want it."

"So go buy some condoms," Ben says. "Aim high."

Hank laughs a little, and says he will; whether that's true or not he's not sure, but it's easier to agree than to put up a fuss, and he gets the point Ben's making. The conversation drifts, from there; Hank finds himself asking for updates on Alan's job in the health department and details on the other things Kenzie's been baking (cream puffs were a recent success but an attempt at meringues was an unexpected disaster), ands Ben's cheerful rambling soothes most of what remains of his worry about tomorrow's date. It's not gone, he knows, but it's less immediately present.

"You should come for dinner soon," Ben says. "You can make a fuss over Kenzie's baking, she says we're just humoring her when we tell her how good it is."

"If you need someone to eat a bunch of cake and tell Kenz it's delicious, I'm your man," Hank says.

"I'll check our schedule and text you in a day or two to set a time, all right?"

"Sounds good," Hank says. "Listen, I'm gonna let you go, but, thanks for being willing to talk a bit. I think it helped."

"Any time," Ben says. "I know I'm not always free for a call, but you can always text me if you need to talk."

"Yeah. I appreciate it. Tell Alan hi for me, all right?"

Hank's surprised, once he ends the call, by how much better he feels. It's basic shit, he knows, to talk things over with a friend when he's too stuck in his own head, but knowing that doesn't mean it's easy to reach out, or to open up.

He thinks, not for the first time, that Ben's been a better friend to him than he deserves, better than he could ever hope to repay; he was Hank's biggest support at the end of the previous year, gently but persistently pushing him to get help in his worst moments. Not the sort of thing you buy a friend a fruit basket for, but maybe the way for Hank to start paying him back is to go to dinner and see Kenzie again. Apologize, with his presence if not with his words, for pulling away from Ben's family for a few years.

The rest of the day passes fairly uneventfully; Hank makes himself some lunch, throws a tennis ball for Sumo in the backyard for a bit, and lets himself zone out in front of the tv for most of the afternoon. It isn't until later, as he's picking at the pizza he ordered for dinner, that he thinks back to Ben's suggestion about condoms, and how little he knows about what Connor might want. What he's even physically capable of.

He's getting ahead of himself, he knows; even if Connor does think he's hot, as Ben assumed, (a concept which sounds ridiculous when Hank considers it, but which he grudgingly admits he has a growing pile of evidence for), it doesn't mean he's going to want to do anything about it the first time they're able to spend time together.

Still, though, he can't help but wonder. What might he want? Connor pretty clearly enjoys touch, based on how handsy he's been up until now; if he isn't capable of sex, or doesn't want it, what would he enjoy instead?

Tentatively, Hank enters "android erogenous zones" into his phone and clicks on the least sleazy-looking result.

The site he finds is only moderately helpful; sexual preferences don't seem to be any more universal among androids than they are in humans. Only certain models were designed to have genitals, apparently; Hank has no idea what Connor's model is, and there are enough companies installing aftermarket parts and software patches that knowing that information wouldn't necessarily tell Hank anything. He figures if Connor wants to talk about what may or may not be in his pants, he'll bring it up, and until then he doesn't want to focus on that too much.

What he does find himself drawn to, though, are descriptions of where most android models have panels that open for maintenance or repair; the wires are closer to the surface there, and apparently many androids experience increased sensitivity in those areas as a result. He studies the diagrams; while there's some variation on placement between models, there are areas on most androids that seem to have some overlap in sensitivity: the inner forearms, the back of the neck and thighs, just above or below the navel, and the soles of the feet.

Hank can't help but think about smoothing his hands over Connor's body, moving slowly and carefully to find the places where he's most sensitive. He imagines trailing kisses from Connor's wrist to his elbow, nuzzling the back of his neck while his hands settle low on his stomach. Hank can't pretend he doesn't find Connor incredibly attractive because he does, of course he does, but part of what's so captivating about him isn't how he looks, but how close he stands to Hank, how many excuses he makes to touch him. It's been so long since Hank's been touched with affection that he'd almost forgotten how much he misses it, but as he's contemplating the potential sensitivity of Connor's hands, he wonders if Connor's experienced affectionate touch at all. He's handsome enough that Hank can't assume he hasn't caught someone's eye before, but there's something in Connor's manner, a combination of forwardness and hesitation that makes Hank wonder if this is all brand new to him.

If it is, Hank wants to be careful; he might be out of practice with relationships or...whatever the hell it is that Connor wants, but he still knows when and how to take a little extra care with someone. Hank's had plenty of partners who appreciated his size, but he'd learned very quickly that with that size came the need to be cautious, especially at first.

Hank realizes he's been staring blankly at his phone while thinking about touching Connor for several minutes; the screen's still on, registering the eye contact, but he's not taking in any of the information.

He shakes himself out of his reverie and scrolls down a bit; the next section provides details about how to open the access panels and what to do once you have access to an android's wiring. "That's enough for tonight," Hank says out loud, startling Sumo out of his snooze in the corner. He sets down his phone, although he does save the site for later. He may not be ready to picture getting his hands deep in Connor's wires right this minute, but it seems likely that he'll be up for it later.

Perhaps, though, he should just ask Connor. He pictures pressing in close, crowding into Connor's space so he can feel how hard Hank's getting, and asking how he likes to be touched.

Hank's arousal has been building all evening, a low, hungry rumble in the back of his mind that he's been aware of without feeling any particular need to act on it, but the thought of Connor taking Hank's hand in his own and leading it across his body to where he wants Hank's touch the most is enough to turn the rumble to a roar, a hot rush prickling under Hank's skin that's impossible to ignore. He groans and squeezes his thigh, hips rolling up reflexively against nothing.

Connor's so sweet, he thinks, as he eases a hand into his boxers and sighs at the relief of getting his hand on his cock, and Hank wants to help him feel good. He thinks about Connor's hand guiding him to the back of his neck, about kissing and nuzzling Connor there, just below his hairline, while he ruts against him from behind. Kissing his hand, the underside of his wrist, taking his fingers into his mouth one at a time.

Hank's hand speeds up on his cock and his thoughts become more disjointed, more focused on sensation than a specific narrative: kissing every inch of Connor's skin he can reach, Connor's hand curled tightly in Hank's hair, pulling him where he wants him, his sweet voice low and rough with arousal. Dark eyes watching Hank as he jerks himself, lips brushing his ear when Connor murmurs "I want to see you come."

"Oh, fuck," Hank moans, when he thinks about Connor draped over him, watching.

"Come for me," the imagined Connor whispers, and Hank can't help but obey; with a deep, drawn out groan he comes, thighs tightening as he spills over his hand.

Hank slumps back into the couch, breathing heavily, and wishes Connor was there to cuddle in the afterglow.


	5. Chapter 5

Perhaps it's his conversation with Ben, perhaps it's the post-orgasm endorphins, but somehow Hank finds himself calm enough to get a reasonable amount of sleep, much to his relief. He's able to sleep in until Sumo barges into the bedroom, eager to be fed and taken outside, and snuffles at Hank's hand where it's dangling off the edge of the bed. "All right, buddy, I'm up," Hank groans. "You going to be good for Connor today? I don't want you jumping and drooling all over him."

Sumo just wags his tail and leads Hank to the cupboard where his food is stored, as if he's worried Hank's forgotten where he keeps it. Hank rolls his eyes, feeds him, and digs up some breakfast of his own.

Hank had wanted to give himself plenty of time to sleep in and prepare before meeting Connor at the park, but by late morning he realizes he's just given himself half a day to get worked up over the whole thing. He considers trimming his beard half a dozen times, worried about being too obvious in his attempts to look a little better for Connor, before he gives in and neatens up the edges with his clippers. He even pulls out a bottle of beard oil he seldom uses and combs a few drops through, to soften it up a little. The warm, woody scent is soothing, and when he checks himself out in the mirror he decides the end result is at least a minor improvement. He considers pulling his hair back, but ultimately settles for making sure it's combed down from the wild mess he woke up with. He slips a hair elastic into his pocket, though, in case the wind picks up while they're in the park.

In the last hour before he leaves, Hank channels his lingering restlessness into brushing Sumo, working out a couple small areas of matted fur and leaves he'd picked up in the yard that morning. He's sure Connor will like Sumo whether he has a leaf stuck in his tail or not, but he wants them both to make a good impression.

_ He likes you _ , Hank thinks, when he has the sudden, sullen impulse to stay home where he can't disappoint anyone. _ If he didn't want to see you, he wouldn't have agreed to this. You'll be fine. _

"We'll be fine, right boy?" Hank says, giving Sumo one final stroke with the brush and hauling himself off the floor. Sumo thumps his tail in reply.

They arrive at the dog park a few minutes early. Sumo knows where they are the moment Hank turns into the parking lot; he whines and paces in the back seat, eager to stretch his legs and investigate the smells dozens of other dogs have left behind. Hank barely has a moment to clip Sumo's leash on before he takes off for the park entrance, nearly dragging Hank behind him. Hank's big, and pretty strong, but so is Sumo; he's managed to pull Hank over before in an unguarded moment, but at least he knows to be alert for it when they're at the park. He lets himself be pulled forward, figuring they'll wait for Connor on the bench near the dog park's entrance, but as Hank's drawn in that direction he can see that Connor's beaten them to it.

Connor has his head turned, watching two small dogs play-bowing and chasing each other just inside the fenced-in area, and Hank takes a moment, as he approaches, to admire him. He'd be attractive wearing anything, Hank knows, and he's cute enough in the dorky polo shirt and overalls the garden's employees have to wear at work, but he appreciates being able to see what Connor prefers to wear when the choice is up to him. He has on dark, slim-fit trousers that seem to have a faint silvery sheen where the sunlight hits them, and a plum-colored sweater that looks incredibly soft. "Please don't jump on him," he says to Sumo, as he gives an excited bark and barrels towards the gate.

Connor turns at Sumo's deep bark, grinning and rising from the bench when he sees them; miraculously, Sumo must find him interesting because he stops pulling frantically for the park entrance and slows just enough as they approach that he only slightly knocks Connor off balance when he careens into his legs, wagging and wiggling excitedly.

"Shit, sorry—" Hank steps around Sumo to put a steadying hand on Connor's shoulder, then tries in vain to ask Sumo to sit. "He's too excited, he loves the park." Sumo nudges Connor's hip insistently with his snout, still wagging. "Apparently he thinks you're exciting as well."

"It's all right," Connor says, laughing. "I'm glad to see him, too." He leans down and scratches behind his ears. "He's huge! And so cute."

Sumo finally sits still once Connor starts fussing over him, although he remains fixated on one of his pockets, sniffing at it when Connor leans down to scratch his back.

"Oh!" Connor says, when Sumo noses at the pocket for a third time. "Is it all right if I give him something? I brought a little treat for Sumo, to help win him over. I want him to like me."

"Sure, he'll love it," Hank says, although he knows it isn't necessary; Sumo isn't exactly a standoffish dog to begin with. Still, he's charmed by the gesture.

Connor fishes a small bag out of his pocket and tosses a piece of jerky to Sumo, who snaps it out of the air and immediately waits for more. Connor tosses him another, then tucks the empty bag back into his pocket. "Do you think it worked?"

Hank knows Sumo is happy to meet anyone who's willing to pet him, with no bribes needed, but it's clear that the addition of meaty snacks has elevated Connor to true Best Friend status immediately, as far as Sumo's concerned; he licks Connor's hand enthusiastically and stares at him with affection. "I'm pretty sure it did, yeah," he says. "Is there a treat in the other pocket for me?"

"I didn't need one," Connor says. "I know you like me already."

"You got me there," Hank says. And then, because Sumo had quite literally trampled over any sort of smooth entrance Hank might have hoped for, he holds his arms open in invitation. "You look, uh, really nice," he fumbles. "Do you want a--"

He's cut off by Connor neatly tucking himself against his chest. He shouldn't be surprised, really, considering how eager Connor's been to touch Hank in the past, but still he's startled by how eagerly Connor melts into him. "That answers that, huh?" Hank murmurs, as he wraps his arms around Connor. "I should have guessed you'd be a hugger."

Connor sighs into Hank's neck. "I assumed I'd enjoy it," he says, "but I couldn't be sure, until now." His hand slides up and down the broad plane of Hank's back, almost like he's petting him. "It's so comfortable."

"Yeah, feels good," Hank says. He settles one hand low on Connor's back and places the other at the top of his spine. He's tall, almost as tall as Hank, and he fits against him wonderfully, tucking his chin over Hank's shoulder and humming contentedly as Hank pats his back a little. As the seconds pass by and he shows no sign of letting go, a thought enters Hank's mind. He should have realized it sooner, maybe.

"Connor," Hank asks, "have you not been hugged before?" He tries to pull back just enough to see Connor's face, but he clings tighter, as if he's worried Hank will disappear altogether.

"No," Connor says, his mouth now so close to Hank's ear that he can feel the exhalation of it. "Very few people have touched me at all, and fewer still have done so with the intent to show affection."

"That's a shame," Hank says. He doesn't want to think too hard about what it means that the majority of those who've touched Connor have done so in—in what, anger? Indifference? Cruelty? Surely with less care than he deserved. He may not know Connor well, yet, but he knows he deserves better. "Lucky for you, I've always been told I give good hugs, so I guess I'm a good choice for your first time."

It's part of being tall and broad and a little soft, Hank supposes (although perhaps more than a little, these days); he's gotten the comment from a handful of people he's hugged over the years, partners and friends alike. Connor seems to agree; he squeezes Hank a little tighter and makes a small, pleased sound as he nuzzles into his neck.

They're startled by a sudden tug on Hank's wrist as Sumo, bored of sitting still now that no one is telling him how cute his is or giving him jerky treats, lunges towards the park gate. "We better let him go run wild," Hank says, reluctantly pulling back; this time, Connor lets him go, although his disappointment is evident. "Hey," Hank says, taking Connor's arm and looping it through his as they make their way into the dog park, "we can do that again later if you want. Not to be pushy about it or anything, but it seemed like you would have held on for a while, if not for Mr. Impatient over here."

"I would have," Connor agrees. "We're here to let Sumo have a good time, though, so let's do that." He tightens his grip on Hank's arm and leans into him as they pass through the narrow gate. "Perhaps this is more personal than I should be right away, but I crave physical affection a great deal, and think about it often. Knowing it's something you're open to puts me at ease, a bit; I don't want to focus on it to an extent that makes you uncomfortable."

"Hey, you be as personal as you like, Connor," Hank says. "That's part of why we're here today, right? To get a little personal and learn about each other." He pulls a tennis ball out of his pocket and unsnaps Sumo's leash; Sumo lumbers away and back again, eyes on the ball, clearly ready to chase it. "Go get it, boy!" Hank lobs the ball across the grass, aiming for an area without too many other dogs that might run in and grab the ball before Sumo can get to it. He's not the fastest pup in the park, after all. "If it helps," Hank says, sliding an arm around Connor's waist, "I'm a little out of practice but I can tell you I'm a pretty affectionate guy, once I know someone's into it."

"I like that," Connor says. He leans into Hank, then steps forward to greet Sumo as he bounds back and drops the tennis ball at his feet. He seems less reluctant to step away when he knows he's welcome to get close again when he wants to. Connor throws the ball again, a bit farther than Hank had, and once again Sumo eagerly leaps after it.

They throw the ball a few more times, but before long Sumo gets distracted by a sleek black dog who wants to wrestle, and then by a game of chase that a third of the dogs are having off in a corner of the park, and Hank steers the two of them towards one of the benches along the fence where they can be more comfortable while still keeping an eye on Sumo. 

Connor seems to be thrilled to be around so many dogs; Hank remembers that he said he didn't get to see them often. Occasionally one will meander by the bench on the off-chance that one of them will have a treat to offer, and some are happy to stay long enough for Connor to shyly offer his hand to sniff before giving the friendliest dogs a scratch under their chin or at the base of their tails. "Some of them are put off by how we smell," he says, "but I find that many dogs don't mind at all. I'm glad Sumo doesn't."

"He doesn't mind much," Hank says, nodding towards where Sumo's good-naturedly allowing a smaller dog to leap on him and try to knock him over. "I figured he'd like you, and that was before you brought out the bribes."

"I wanted to make a good impression," Connor says, as if meeting Sumo was like going to a job interview, or meeting a partner's parents for the first time. "Maybe that's silly, but I didn't want you to have planned this afternoon together only to find out that your dog doesn't like me."

"I wasn't worried about it," Hank says, which he knows isn't the issue, but he's not sure what else to say. He cautiously drapes an arm over Connor's shoulders. "Is this okay?"

"Of course," Connor says, shifting to sit a little closer.

"Good." Connor's sweater is soft beneath his fingertips, and he strokes them along his shoulder, admiring the feel of the fabric. He admires, too, the way Connor sighs and seems to melt a little at even this gentle touch. It's only natural to wonder, he thinks, how Connor might react if Hank were to wrap his hand around the back of his neck and rub his thumb over the places his research suggested would be the most sensitive, but he doesn't want to rush anything; he takes a breath and drags himself back to his original line of thought. He plucks gently at the sweater and asks, "Aren't you a little warm in this? It's hotter out today than I thought it would be." Hank had left his jacket at home, at least, but while he's not uncomfortable he hadn't expected the sun to feel so warm. The spring chill that was present earlier in the week seems to have vanished.

"I'm not particularly sensitive to the weather," Connor says with a shrug that somehow manages to nestle him closer to Hank. "I can overheat, of course, but it takes more extreme temperatures, or a significant increase in the amount of data or other input I'm processing, for me to do so. I chose this sweater because it's soft, and because I look good in it." He raises an eyebrow at Hank like he's daring him to disagree, which of course he is in no hurry to do.

Hank takes a moment to slowly and deliberately let his gaze wander down from Connor's face and back again. "You sure do," he says. "No false modesty, huh? I don't blame you, if I looked that good I'd be confident, too."

Connor's pleased by the compliment, clearly, but he looks a little troubled, too, and Hank tries to backtrack. "I'm not saying you should pretend you're not attractive, or that you're too, uh, too—"

"It's all right," Connor says, patting Hank's thigh to interrupt his thought. "I think the way androids understand our physical appeal—or, I should say, the way I understand my own—may be different from how humans do."

"Can you explain it to me?" Hank asks. "I'd like to know."

"You were curious, yesterday, about what I did before I worked at the garden. What my original function was."

Hank nods. He has the urge to apologize again, to tell Connor he doesn't want him to feel obligated to discuss his past, but he keeps his mouth shut and waits. He feels pretty certain, by now, that Connor wouldn't bring up something he wasn't comfortable talking about.

"How I feel about my appearance is directly related to the function I was created to perform. I was made to set people at ease, to integrate with humans easily. I was given a sophisticated social programming suite to help me in that task, but my appearance was part of it, too. I know I was made to be attractive. Someone designed me to be appealing in a specific way that suited their needs for me."

Connor is silent, for a moment. The crowd in the dog park has thinned a bit, but there are still half a dozen dogs left; he watches a few of them bark and chase each other while Sumo lazes on the grass and wags his tail as a small tan mutt sniffs him intently.

"It feels good, of course, to know you find me attractive. More than good, Hank; to be clear, it's what I want. But I also know, on some level, that it's what Cyberlife's design team wanted. Not for you, specifically, to be attracted to me, but for whoever dealt with me to find me pleasing to look at, at the very least, if not sexually appealing."

"It doesn't feel like you had an active role," Hank ventures. He can see how it would feel different to be directly created to be hot than to be blessed at birth with good genes; he doesn't know what either feels like, but he imagines they wouldn't be the same at all. 

"Exactly," Connor says. He shifts restlessly on the bench, but doesn't pull away from Hank's arm, so he keeps it where it is. "And none of what I was given was for my own benefit. I'm not attractive so that I can enjoy the feeling of being desired, but so I can use my appearance to set people at ease and work well with them." Connor stares at his hands, clasped tightly in his lap. "Or manipulate them. That was as much a part of my purpose as anything else."

Connor can sense Hank's curiosity, surely, and the effort Hank's putting into not asking—as much as Hank wants to know, because he's curious by nature and curious about Connor in particular, it doesn't feel right to push for more—because he gives him a small, sad smile and reaches up to pat Hank's hand where it's draped over his shoulder.

"I'll explain the rest," he says, "but do you remember what I told you earlier, about how choosing something for myself, having a preference and acting on it, imbues that choice with more importance?"

"Yeah," Hank says. "You were telling me why the pond was your favorite part of the garden."

"I was flirting with you, as well," Connor reminds him, "but I wasn't sure you'd noticed yet."

"I was a little slow on the uptake, but I got there eventually." Hank squeezes Connor's shoulder, gently urging him to lean against him. "I'm glad you helped me along a little."

Connor relaxes against Hank with a deep, pleased sigh. "I hope you can understand that it isn't only my appearance I have these thoughts about," he says. "I am a little vain, I'll admit, when it comes to the decisions I've made about my own appearance, such as the clothes I feel most comfortable and attractive in, but that's not all that I am."

"Of course not," Hank says. "I get it, I'm the one who brought up how cute you are so that's the angle you're coming at it from, but. It sounds like being made to be a certain way makes it hard to, I don't know, to separate out who you are from who someone else thought you should be, especially when they didn't even think of you as a person at all. Or how to express that, when you figure it out." He rubs the soft wool of Connor's sweater between his fingertips. "And it's all led you to being a gardener with great taste in clothes, apparently."

"And in men," Connor adds. "Don't forget that."

Hank's less sure about that, but he isn't in the mood to disagree, not when Connor's snuggled up so close and looking at him so sweetly. "Sure," he says. "Whatever you say."

"The point being," Connor says, looking quite pleased that Hank chose not to argue, "the choices I've made in terms of what I like, how I present myself, the work I do that's so different from how I was programmed...it's all very important to me." He bites his lip, considering his words carefully. "It is me, in a way; my choices are what set me apart from the Connor who was created to, well." He nods towards Sumo, who's still lounging lazily in the soft grass, watching the other dogs at play. "Would you be willing to walk with me, while I tell you?"

"Sure thing," Hank says. "Ready to stretch your legs a little?"

"I think it'll be easier to talk, that way, although I'm not sure why."

"You don't need to know why," Hank says. "Sounds good to me." He whistles sharply, and Sumo perks his head up, tail wagging gently as he makes his way back to where Hank and Connor are sitting. "You want to hold his leash while we walk? He's tired out now, he shouldn't have the energy to pull you over or anything."

"I'm stronger than I look, Hank," Connor says, amused. "He'd have to work pretty hard to pull me over."

"You'll be just fine, then," Hank says, clipping the leash onto Sumo's collar and handing it over. "He'll probably behave more for you than he does for me, anyway."

Connor's happy to take Sumo's leash, and as they exit the dog park he takes Hank's arm as well, leaning against him playfully as they make their way down the paved path along the riverfront. "Sometimes it helps me think if my body is moving," he says, "or if my hands are, at least."

"I get that, yeah," Hank says. "I was thinking about it in the garden yesterday, actually. I used to go hiking, a long time ago, and I felt like that. It was part of what I liked about it."

"I'm glad you understand," Connor says. He slides his hand down Hank's arm and tentatively takes his hand. "Is this all right?"

"Yeah," Hank says. He interlaces their fingers and gives Connor's hand a squeeze. "Definitely all right." He holds Connor's gaze and lifts his hand slowly to his mouth. "How about this?" He brushes his lips against the back of Connor's hand, just enough to make contact for a moment. Barely a kiss at all, really. 

Connor's mouth falls open slightly and he nods, wide-eyed. "I think so, but I'll need you to do it again, so I can be sure."


	6. Chapter 6

Hank knows he's on a public pedestrian path, with a scattering of other folks passing by and a big dog patiently snuffling next to him, but he feels like his focus has narrowed down sharply until there's just Connor, regarding him with a sweet, expectant expression.  _ This is some romance novel shit _ , he thinks, as he shifts his grip on Connor's hand. It would be a little ridiculous, maybe, if it didn't feel so natural.

"As many times as you want," Hank says, and as he lifts Connor's hand back to his lips he brushes two fingertips over the underside of his wrist. Connor inhales sharply, and a moment later he sighs, deep enough that it's almost a moan, when Hank presses a kiss—a proper one, this time—to the back of his hand. Hank can't help but wonder if this is just how responsive Connor is, in general. Would he make the same sweet sounds if Hank were to explore the rest of his body with his hands, or his mouth? If he kissed Connor the way he wants to, burying one hand in his hair and teasing at him with his tongue, coaxing Connor to open for him?

Hank's mouth lingers over Connor's hand, breath warming his skin, as he loses himself in thought for a moment. "Did that clear things up any?" he asks, desperately trying to stop wondering what Connor's mouth tastes like. "Or do you need me to keep going?" He strokes Connor's wrist again.

"I—" Connor is momentarily at a loss for words, LED stuttering amber as he stares at their joined hands, but he recovers quickly. "I don't think this is the place for me to ask you to keep going," he says, "but I certainly have my answer. I enjoy being kissed, and it's something I'd like to experience more, although perhaps 'explore' is the better word; even though so much is new to me, I don't want to simply experience it passively. Now isn't the time, but..." he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, as if centering himself, and interlaces their fingers again before gently tugging both Hank and Sumo forward.

Connor seems happy to let his thought go unfinished, hanging between them like an apple too high to reach, hidden amidst the surrounding leaves and branches. Hank thinks he can see the shape of it, but he'd rather be sure.

"'But?'" He prompts. 

"Now isn't the time," Connor repeats, "but perhaps that won't always be the case." He squeezes Hank's hand.

"I'm sure it won't," Hank says. "You just let me know if, uh, if you need any help with that exploration, and I'll be there."

"Good," Connor says. He gazes out over the water as they stroll in silence for a couple minutes. Hank admires how the wind coming in from the river ruffles his hair. Finally, after they've walked a bit farther, Connor speaks again.

"I'm not trying to avoid the subject, but it's difficult to know where to begin, in talking about my original function, and the first few months of my life." He shakes his head. "That isn't right, either; I know where to begin, but it isn't pleasant to think about; it's easier to imagine I could skip that part of the story altogether, but of course I can't. Not if I want you to understand this part of me."

"Whatever you're comfortable with is fine by me," Hank says. "Don't push yourself on my account."

"It's not for you, not entirely," Connor says. "I've never told this story to anyone, not like this. Other androids have interfaced with me, and understand my experience because of the information we exchanged, but I haven't arranged it into a narrative to present to another person." He glances back at Hank. "I haven't felt like I wanted to, before."

Hank still doesn't understand why he's the one Connor wants, for any of this, but he's starting to accept it, so he gives him an encouraging nod and waits, instead of pressing the issue.

"Cyberlife was aware of 'deviancy' long before the public was, of course," he begins, the scare quotes around "deviancy" so heavy Hank can almost see them.

"They wanted the problem contained quickly, and top executives decided the best weapon to use against an android going against its programming was another android. One designed with sophisticated tools to find and analyze evidence, understand and predict deviant behavior, and, when the moment came, to neutralize them." He smiles at Hank, an insincere flash of teeth that doesn't reach his eyes. "I was made to hunt down and kill deviant androids."

"Well, shit," Hank says. It's a far cry from planting water lilies, but Hank can only imagine that's on purpose. He gives Connor's hand a gentle squeeze and lets him continue.

"The end goal, as I understand it, was to send me to the police, where I would aid their investigation into deviancy. I was made, as I said, to integrate well with other people, to be pleasant to look at and to work with."

Hank wonders if he and Connor would have crossed paths, if things had been different. If he'd still been an officer when Connor came to the department. He gets the feeling Connor never made it there, though.

"Something happened to sink that plan, I'm guessing?"

Connor nods. "I failed my first assignment. Maybe it's more accurate to say that it...it broke me." He falls silent for a minute, LED flickering unsteadily, and Hank wonders if he's reliving a painful memory. He wonders, even, what it means for him to access a memory. Does he pull up a file, like Hank pulling out old photo albums from when he was a kid? Does he peer at a field of ones and zeroes and absorb something from it that becomes an image of the past?

"There was a little girl," Connor says, finally, "Emma. I was called in to negotiate with an android who was holding her hostage. My orders were clear: save the child by any means, and either neutralize the android myself or create a situation where it was safe for the officers on site to do so. I had been trained on tests and simulations, but had no real-world experience. When I stepped into that apartment, it was the first time I'd been inside a home at all."

Hank has a hazy memory of the hostage situation in question; he's not entirely sure he remembers it correctly, but he's pretty sure he saw some news story or other about it. If he's right, he feels a small sense of relief knowing Connor's story ends with the little girl alive, at least. Even if it's shitty in every other way, he won't have to keep it together while he hears about some innocent kid getting killed.

"I was proud," Connor says. "I was an advanced prototype meant to take out androids who were dangerous, who were acting against their programming, who needed to be destroyed to keep people safe. I believed that. I was glad I had been given such an important mission. I would have told you, if you'd asked me, that I couldn't feel at all, that I was responding to my duties with the enthusiasm programmed into me, and I would have been wrong."

"I think I knew, even then," he says. "That I was wrong. They made us to respond, to act like people, up until the point where acknowledging that we felt emotions, that we experienced stress or pain or humiliation just as people do, became inconvenient. Until the point where it would threaten profits if the public got too close to remembering that their servants could feel upset. That they could want things."

"I'm sorry," Connor says, breaking out of his narrative. "It's hard to know how to explain this to you."

"Hey, hey," Hank says, leading them to the railing at the edge of the path, beside the river. He drops Connor's hand and wraps his arm around his waist, holding him close. "You said you haven't told this story out loud before, it's okay if you aren't sure how to do it. But you're doing fine, I'm following you so far. You don't need to apologize for anything."

Connor sighs shakily and leans into Hank, resting his head on his shoulder. "I need to apologize to Daniel."

Hank does his best to focus on the story, not on how it feels to have Connor leaning against him like he's drawing comfort from it. Not on how much he wants to turn and press a kiss to the crown of his head. "Daniel, was he the android?"

"He was their housekeeper," Connor says, gaze distant and unfocused as he stares out over the water. "He took care of Emma, every day. Helped her with her homework. Played any game she wanted. He—"

Connor shakes his head and grips the railing, falling silent for a moment.

"He loved her," he says, bitterly. "And it didn't count for anything when a newer model came out. I investigated the apartment when I arrived, before I spoke to Daniel, and what every piece of evidence told me, what was so clear when I saw what his life had been like with that family, was that he'd loved Emma. She called him her best friend, she looked up to him. Maybe she loved him, too. I don't know."

"What—what happened?" Hank can't help but ask. He knows, or thinks he does, based on what he remembers. A girl lives, an android is destroyed. An android dies, he corrects himself.

"He found out he was being replaced. They hadn't told him, of course; why would you tell your sofa you're buying a new one and taking it to the dump? They didn't stop to think that the android they'd told to love their child might love her so much he wouldn't want to be taken away from her. That he'd do anything to avoid it."

"I don't condone what he did," Connor says. "Emma was terrified. He killed people; he could have killed her. But he let me get close to him. I told him I could help him, that there was a way out. I knew it was a lie, but I had to make sure Emma was safe. So I lied, and he—he interfaced with me. So I could see."

"That's when you do the—" Hank raises his hand and wiggles his fingers.

Connor touches his palm to Hank's and lets his skin ripple back, until his bare chassis, stark white in the afternoon sun, is pressed against him. It's smooth with a subtle matte texture, somehow cooler than his hand is with the skin in place. "We can exchange information quickly," he says. "I thought he would send me data about the situation, something I could use to understand the context of his distress and to find a way to neutralize him. He was still holding Emma, at the time; I still needed to get her away from him safely."

"But you got more than just some data, I'm guessing."

"It was a flood," Connor says. "In his anguish, in his heightened emotional state, he sent everything he had."

Connor shivers suddenly, as if he's cold, or terrified. "I saw it all," he says. "And you have to understand, Hank, how quickly it happened; our hands have already touched longer than the entire transfer took." He gives Hank's hand a brief squeeze before gripping the railing again. Hank sees the texture of Connor's skin ripple and unfold back over his fingers. He doesn't quite understand what he's seeing, but he decides it's beautiful, all the same.

"When I touched Daniel, I was a machine. I was sure of it. Sophisticated. Expensive. Designed for a purpose I was eager to carry out quickly and efficiently. And then—Daniel's pain, his anger, his deep, wounded love for Emma crashed into me. I felt it, I witnessed it, I—I understood, Hank, what he felt, but beyond that I understood that to feel was not just possible, but inevitable."

"My mission remained the same. I thought, perhaps, that my internal landscape would have shifted to reflect what I had just experienced, to incorporate the understanding that had been pushed inside of me, but the objective of the task I'd been sent to do had not changed."

"Shit," Hank mumbles. "What did you do?" He suspects there's no way he can truly understand the interface, at least not like another android can, but he understands that it must have been overwhelming. Traumatic, even. He's afraid that whatever Connor tells him next might be worse.

"I had lied, before," Connor says. "To get close to Daniel, I had told him there would be a way out, if Emma was safe. But after we touched, I thought that maybe there could be a way. I had the laughably naive thought that perhaps the people at Cyberlife who'd created me to hunt and kill deviants did it because they didn't understand what deviancy was. I thought there must be a way I could explain it, that if I was made to solve problems, any solution would be welcomed."

"And Daniel believed me. Whatever he saw, whatever I let slip when I was overcome with the information he sent to me, made him trust me. He let me send Emma to safety. He agreed to come peacefully with me if I advocated for him."

Connor slumps down against the railing. "He was shot in the head the moment he stepped out of cover."

"Jesus." Hank settles an arm over Connor's shoulders, pressing in close when Connor sags and leans against him. "Right in front of you?"

"Yes," Connor says. "Close enough that I caught him as he fell. And he—he thought I'd lied to him, not just at first but to manipulate him into letting Emma go, into coming out in the open. What else could he have thought? I didn't blame him for it then, and I don't now."

Connor straightens a little, although he doesn't stop leaning into Hank's embrace. "I'd rather not discuss what happened afterwards in detail. Cyberlife was intent on discovering how their expensive prototype had managed to deviate almost immediately; instead of scrapping me entirely, it was decided that testing was required, to understand the problem. When the researchers fled, during the revolution, I was left behind until the androids remaining in storage and in the labs were liberated. I had to decide, then what I intended to do with myself."

"You chose the garden?"

"I chose to be where I wouldn't be able to hurt anyone. Where I could focus on cultivating life, and my contact with people would be minimal." Connor offers Hank a small smile. "It felt right. It's a strange thing, to try to understand what your preferences are, when you have no prior knowledge of what it means or feels like to prefer anything at all. It was a confusing time."

"Shit, I can imagine," Hank says. "I guess I can understand why you'd be drawn to gardening, after all that. How'd you get that job, anyway? Did you know much about plants to begin with?"

Connor shakes his head. "I didn't, actually. I knew nothing, just that the idea of helping things grow, of cultivating a beautiful space, appealed to me. It was easy enough to access the necessary information; I was able to review and install the same databases and texts that WB200 androids and other models designed for gardening were pre-installed with."

"Enough to pass whatever interviews they had for the position?"

Connor chuckles nervously. "Not exactly," he says. "After I was freed from Cyberlife Tower, I still had the access to the city's administrative systems that I was given when I was meant to work with the police. Those permissions hadn't been removed when I was—" He takes a deep breath and reaches up to curl his hand over Hank's where it's resting on his shoulder. "They weren't removed during testing, and when the researchers left, they did so in a hurry; no one thought to restrict my access."

"So you what, went into the system and hired yourself?" It's just a joke to lighten the mood; Hank doesn't think he's right, so he's surprised when Connor nods and huffs out another nervous little laugh.

"Well, yes." Connor looks a little embarrassed about it, but he's clearly pleased with himself, too. "I may have given myself and the other android employees a small pay increase, as well."

"Not a huge one? You didn't want to throw an extra zero at the end of your salary?"

Connor shakes his head. "That would be noticed, sooner or later; bumping us up from one pay grade to the next was harder to detect. It's not the most ethical way to go about finding employment, I realize, but I wasn't sure what else to do with myself. I didn't want to be forced back into the work I was created to do. I couldn't risk hurting someone again."

It's so hard for Hank to imagine him hurting anyone at all. Connor's always seemed so gentle, to him; it's difficult to picture him any other way. "I'm glad," he says. "Sounds like you did what you had to do to find something that would make you happy."

"I think I'm getting there, at least," Connor says. "People spend their entire lives trying to be happy, don't they? I haven't had much time to spend figuring out what I need, but most days I feel...content, I suppose. It's harder, when I find myself thinking about what I could have done differently with Daniel, or about what came afterwards. I—I try not to dwell on the past too often, but it's unavoidable, to some extent. When I can turn my focus to where I am now, and who I'm trying to be, then, yes. I think I'm something close to happy."

Connor may be newer to the world of seeking happiness than he is, Hank thinks, but he clearly has a good approach down already. Better than Hank's managed it, by the look of it, although it's clear that whatever happened in those months between his first mission and when he was freed from Cyberlife Tower, it was pretty traumatic; he can't know how painful those wounds still feel.

"I think that's what you're supposed to do, with the bad shit," Hank says. "You can't pretend it never happened, but maybe you can focus more on the good shit that's happening now." He shrugs. "I'm not too good at it, but I think I'm getting better." And then, because Connor's given him so much and been so vulnerable just now, and he wants to offer some part of himself in return, he says, "I hit bottom, I guess you could say, about six months ago."

He doesn't think he can tell Connor why, not yet. But maybe what he can say will be enough, for now. "Some of us deal with tragedy by ruining everything else around us, because it hurts too much to feel good about something when you know you don't deserve it. When someone's gone and can't feel anything, anymore, it feels like a betrayal to be happy."

Connor wraps an arm around Hank's waist and leans into him, pressing their bodies together as close as he can. They're half-embracing now; Connor's turned towards him, facing away from the water. He doesn't say anything, just strokes his hand over Hank's lower back and waits.

"I got help. I didn't want to, to be honest. Spent the first few weeks in rehab wondering why I was bothering."

"What changed?"

Hank's not sure, even now. There was no revelation, no moment when everything clicked. "I don't really know," he says, after he takes a moment to consider the question. "I remember one morning I was drinking my coffee and kept wanting to lean down and pet Sumo, because he likes to hang out at the kitchen table when I have breakfast; he knows I'll drop a piece of cereal or two for him every time. Of course he wasn't there, and I found myself thinking about how much I missed having him around." Hank glances down at Sumo, who had long ago given up on waiting for the two of them to continue their walk and is stretched out and snoozing on the sun-warmed brick of the path beside them. "Maybe 'I want to get through this so I can see my dog' was a weird reason to start to get my shit together, but weird or not, it helped. And Ben, my friend who—he found me in a state I really wish he didn't have to see me in, and I guess I wanted to make sure he never had to go through the shit he went through with me that night ever again. I didn't really think I was worth putting in all this effort for, but they were. They deserved someone better in their lives." A deep discomfort wells up in his chest and he sighs and shakes his head; he has to stop before he goes too far down this road. "So I'm trying to be better."

Connor, much to Hank's relief, seems to understand that he's said as much as he's able to, for now. "Thank you," he says, quietly. His hand is still low on Hank's back, still moving in slow, gentle circles.

"Hope I didn't bring down the mood too much," Hank mumbles.

"No more than I have, surely." Connor reaches for Hank's hand. "Whatever it is that got you through that time, I'm glad of it, and glad you're here with me."

It's hard to Hank to know how to respond when Connor's so direct with him, like he thinks being happy to spend time with Hank is the most natural thing in the world while Hank's still shaking off his surprise that Connor's interested in him at all. "I'm glad of it too," he says, taking Connor's hand and leading him back to the path. Sumo yawns and stretches before trotting along beside them; he seems refreshed by the little nap he'd taken while they were talking, but Hank knows he'll crash hard when they get home.

They walk in silence for a few minutes, and Hank thinks about how he really is glad, these days, that Ben was able to get through to him. That he'd managed to drag himself through the shame and misery he felt in rehab. That his attempt to find somewhere new to spend time led him to a date with a guy who's sweet and gentle and way out of Hank's league, but who seems thrilled to be holding his hand, all the same.

"I'm glad you wanted to come out here and spend some time together," Hank says. "I didn't know what sorta things you did outside of work, or if you'd have the time or inclination to keep an old man company."

"My life is very quiet," Connor says. "I had the time, yes, but of course I had the inclination, as well. I've been hoping for more time with you since we met, as I hope I've made clear."

"You charmer," Hank says, shifting his hand in Connor's so he can rub his thumb over his wrist again. He watches out of the corner of his eye as he does it, and Connor's eyes flutter shut, just for a moment. Hank wants to be able to take his time, mapping out the borders of those sensitive areas on Connor's body. Seeing how they respond to a light touch, a firm one, a kiss. Hank doesn't want to get ahead of himself—they've barely touched each other, really, but Connor so clearly enjoys it, and so clearly wants more, that it's difficult to keep from getting caught up in the desire to give it to him.

_ I'm getting worked up just imagining kissing a guy's neck,  _ Hank thinks _. Next I'll be scandalized by the thought of seeing his ankles. _

"But yeah," Hank says, picking up the conversation before he gets too tangled in his thoughts, "you've been pretty up front with me. I'm, uh, I'm not used to that."

"I suppose I'm this way partly because I was expected to manipulate people, if need be," Connor says, thoughtfully. "Being forthright feels like a small rebellion against that expectation. But, Hank, you have to understand: having preferences of any kind is new to me. There are times even now when I surprise myself with the strength of my reactions. So when I see something I want, I suppose I don't see a reason to pretend otherwise."

Heat washes over Hank's face and prickles down his neck. "And what exactly is it that you want, as far as I'm concerned?"

Connor regards Hank thoughtfully, tapping his lip with a finger while he looks him over, as if he's deep in contemplation. His gaze is so intent Hank finds himself wondering, for a brief, ridiculous moment, if he has x-ray vision. Connor has a way of focusing on him that makes Hank feel pinned in place by the weight of his attention.

"I want to spend more time with you like this," he says, finally. "I like learning more about you, and being close." He nudges Hank's shoulder as they walk along. "I'd like to take you someplace nice, so I have an excuse to dress up and impress you."

"That outfit isn't nice?" Hank asks, nodding at Connor's soft, form-fitting sweater. "I'm plenty impressed already, you know."

"You haven't seen me in a suit," Connor says. "I really think you should."

"I won't argue with that," Hank says. "Just letting you know you don't need to go out of your way to impress me."

"I'd like to, anyway. You asked what I wanted; I'm just being thorough. Besides," Connor says with a wink, "it would be an excuse to see you in one as well, and that's just as important."

Hank resigns himself to the thought of buying a new suit, sometime in the near future; if Connor's going to dress to impress he'll outshine him no matter what, but he deserves better than to be seen with Hank in a decade-old suit that probably barely fits him these days. He starts to tell Connor that he wants to keep seeing him too—surely that's not in question, but he's happy to say it—but Connor smiles and holds up his hand to stop him before he can speak.

"I'm not done," he says. "Do you remember how I told you, yesterday, that I'd ask you for something this afternoon?"

Hank nods.

Connor lets go of Hank's hand and winds his arm through Hank's instead, reaching over with his other hand to pat his bicep. "I want you to kiss me. I've given it a lot of thought; it was pleasant to imagine you kissing me in the garden, but I don't think I could fully relax, knowing I could be reprimanded for it."

Hank has to admit it does sound nice, kissing Connor in a grove of flowering trees. "You really think you'd be yelled at over a quick little kiss?"

"Perhaps not," Connor says, "but that wasn't at all what I had in mind."

"No?" Hank asks. "What were you thinking, then?"

"As I said, I've given this a lot of thought; I want to be able to kiss you without feeling rushed, or like I'm looking over my shoulder in case someone's watching. I want privacy, and I want—I want you to take your time with me, show me what you like, and help me learn what I enjoy as well; some of my desires are clear already, but the difference between predicting or preconstructing various situations and the true experience of them is vast, as I've already learned today." He holds Hank's arm tighter, leans into him a bit more. "I had high expectations for our time together, but I've enjoyed myself even more than I anticipated. I can only imagine further physical intimacy with you will have the same result."

"You're gonna give me a big head, talking like that," Hank says, because it's easier than addressing the weight of Connor slipping  _ I want you to take your time with me _ into conversation like it isn't the sexiest goddamn thing anyone's said to him in years. "I don't think I've done anything special enough to deserve that kind of praise, but I'm glad you're having a good time with me." They're walking along the fence around the dog park now, almost to the parking lot, and Hank nods towards his car as they approach. "You said I could drive you home after this, right? If you mean you want to do all that now, have me"—he feels his face flush as he says it—"take my time with you, we can do that."

"If that's what you want, too," Connor says, hastily. "I don't want to assume anything, or push you for something you might not want, or—"

"Connor," Hank interrupts, pulling them to a stop. He cups Connor's face in his hand, rubbing his thumb along his cheekbone. Connor's eyes flutter shut and he sighs, lips parting gently. It would be so easy, Hank thinks, to close the distance between them.

"The only reason I'm not kissing you now," he murmurs, "is so you can have your first time just how you want it. No rushing, no worrying about being seen, nothing else to think about." He brushes Connor's lower lip with his thumb and thinks about tugging it gently between his teeth. "You're better at saying what you want than I am, but don't think I don't want it too."

"It is good to hear you say it," Connor admits. "In theory, my social integration software gives me the ability to analyze and predict the feelings and reactions of other people; I should be able to estimate, to some extent, how reciprocal your interest is. In practice, I haven't had many opportunities to test this skill; it's difficult to know if my read of the situation is correct."

"How about this," Hank says, as he takes Connor's arm again and leads him to his car. "I'm having a great time with you, you're attractive enough to be way out of my league, and if you want me to take you home and help you learn how much you like kissing, I can't think of a better way to spend my evening. You aren't pushing me, I can promise you that."

"You'd tell me, if I was."

"Sure," Hank says, although it doesn't seem likely. Not in any way that would be a problem. Sometimes he needs a push, especially when it comes to something like communication that he's still a little rusty at. He hopes Connor, as direct as he's been so far, won't mind too much when he realizes Hank sometimes struggles to say what's on his mind.

He knows it's important, though; he isn't sure how successful he'll be, at least not at first, but he reminds himself, as they approach the car, that it's a necessary part of getting his shit together again, part of being a goddamn adult, and especially part of a relationship, or whatever this is going to be, with someone with no prior experience at all.

Sumo makes a break for the car when he sees it; despite his earlier claim that he's hard to pull off-balance, Connor finds himself stumbling forward after him, laughing, as he lumbers ahead, tail wagging happily.

"He must be ready to go home," Hank says. "You mind if we drop him off before I take you back? I don't want to presume, but if I'm going to stay for any length of time I don't want to just leave him in the car."

"He could come in, too," Connor protests, but Hank knows Sumo isn't always on his best behavior in a new space. 

"I'm already gonna feel bad about how much dog hair you'll get on your clothes just riding in my car," he says, "and I know he'd probably make a mess of your place just being his big clumsy self. I think he'll be happier to spend the evening passed out in his bed at home, if you don't mind the detour."

"I don't mind at all," Connor says. He rests a hand on Hank's thigh, just above the knee, and squeezes gently. "If it means you can stay over longer, I'm all for it."

"The rest of my night's free," Hank says, "so I can stay as long as you want." He does his best to focus on the road and not on the warm pressure of Connor's hand on his leg or the bright smile he can see out of the corner of his eye as he pulls out of the parking lot and heads home.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene wound up being much longer than I expected, so I'm posting it in two parts; the second part should be up very soon.

Hank knows it might be a little rude, but he asks Connor to wait in the car while he gets Sumo settled inside. His house isn't as much of a wreck now as it had been for a while, but he's still all too aware of the empty pizza boxes piled up in the kitchen and the laundry scattered over the back of the couch; he'd much rather wait to have Connor over, even for a couple minutes, until he has a chance to tidy up a bit.

Happily, Connor doesn't seem to mind. He gets out of the car so he can kneel down to say goodbye to Sumo, who wags his tail and gives Connor's cheek a sloppy kiss before following Hank inside. He checks to make sure his food and water bowls are full, throws him a bully stick, and tells him to be good. "I'll be back later," he says. "Don't wait up." Sumo, of course, ignores him in favor of carrying the bully stick to his bed and gnawing at it with enthusiasm.

Connor's apartment isn't far from the garden; he'd chosen it for the price and the management's willingness to take on android tenants, he explains, but the proximity to work had been a welcome bonus. "It's not very spacious," he says, as Hank pulls up to the sleek high-rise tower, "but I don't need that much space to be comfortable. The view's nice as well; I'm on one of the top floors."

Connor seems a little nervous, as he leads Hank into the quiet apartment lobby and into the elevator, but it's a nervousness born of anticipation, he can tell; from the tight grip Connor has on his hand and how close he's hovering, Hank half-expects he'll be pounced on the moment they get inside.

"Hey," he says, once Connor hits the button for the twenty-second floor and the elevator starts to move. "What are you thinking about?"

"Your hands," Connor murmurs, gripping Hank's fingers tighter. "They're so large and warm, and I—I've been thinking about them quite a bit, lately."

"Are they doing anything in particular, when you think about them?" 

"I—" The elevator chimes softly as the door slides open. Connor stares into Hank's eyes, frozen.

"Is this our stop?" Hank nods towards the open door.

"Oh! Yes, let's..." Connor shakes himself out of his daze and leads Hank to a door at the end of the hall. "Please, come inside." 

There are a lot of assumptions Hank still has to unlearn about androids, he realizes when he steps inside Connor's apartment. He hadn't given too much thought to what the interior would look like, but he'd idly pictured an immaculate, nearly-sterile space, perhaps with a handful of carefully-selected decorative objects.

What he walks into, though, is nothing like what he'd expected.

The apartment is small, as Connor had said. They enter a slightly cramped living space with room for a small sofa and a couple tables and shelves against the walls; beyond a low dividing wall is a tiny kitchenette and a door leading to what he assumes is a bedroom. One of the windows lining the exterior wall looks like it slides open for access onto a balcony. It's all pretty standard for a small urban apartment, but every surface, from the shelves on the wall to the round tables at the corners of the room to the floor and wide railing of the balcony, is covered in houseplants.

Hank is overwhelmed, for a moment, by how many there are. There are plants with trailing vines draped around nearby pots, some with large, glossy leaves, some speckled with pink or white. He recognizes a few—he knows what an aloe looks like, at least, and a spider plant—but most of them are unfamiliar, or at least not plants he knows by name. There are even a handful of spindly, spiky plants seemingly growing out of knots in a large piece of driftwood mounted on the wall. The overall effect isn't messy, by any means, but it looks like Connor spent more time trying to figure out how many plants he could cram into a small space than he did trying to organize them in a perfectly artful arrangement.

"I'm sensing a theme," he says, peering around the room. "Guess it makes sense that you'd have so many plants at home, too, if you like them so much."

"They're calming," Connor says. "And I think they're beautiful."

"They are," Hank says. "You'll have to tell me what they're called; some of these I haven't even seen before." He nods at the driftwood on the wall. "What even are these?"

"Tillandsia lonatha," Connor says, stepping over and stroking one of the silvery-green leaves of the largest plant. "Commonly known as air plants. They don't need soil to grow."

"Huh. Never even heard of something like that." The effect is nice, he has to admit; they almost look like sea anemones growing on coral.

"I'd be happy to tell you about the rest of my plants, Hank, but can we—" he takes Hank's hand and gently leads him over to the sofa.

"Sure we can," Hank says, as he's pulled down onto the sofa. It's small, reflecting the cramped room around them, so he and Connor are already quite close, thighs pressed together and shoulders bumping as they turn to face each other. "What did you have in mind?" 

"Hank," Connor says, softly, almost pleading. "You know what I have in mind."

Hank does, of course; Connor's made it clear what he wants. Still, he wants to hear it again. "I think I remember," he says, as if he's trying to recall something he heard long ago. He cups the back of Connor's neck in his hand, grazing his fingertips lightly over the soft skin there; from the soft sigh he lets out and the way his eyes flutter shut, Hank suspects he's as sensitive here as the information he found online suggested he'd be. He leans in and drops his voice low, until it's almost a whisper rumbling in Connor's ear. "What was it? You might need to jog my memory." He reaches for Connor's hand and brushes his fingers over his palm, mirroring the motion of his other hand.

"Hank," Connor says, again. "Please." He grips Hank's hand tightly and huffs out a short, soft sound, almost a whine. "I want you to kiss me."

"Like this?" Hank lifts Connor's hand to his mouth and presses a kiss, slow and deliberate, to each knuckle.

"Ohh," sighs Connor, "not that, but—"

"Maybe..." Hank turns his hand over and kisses the underside of Connor's wrist; his entire arm twitches and shudders in his grip. "Maybe like this." He kisses Connor's wrist again, then pushes up his sleeve enough to trail a line of gentle kisses halfway to his elbow.

"Hank," Connor gasps, nearly panting, and Hank's hit with a hot wave of arousal, on top of what he's already feeling just being so close to Connor, at the thought of how sensitive, how  _ responsive _ he is, and what that might mean for anything else they do tonight. What it might mean for how good he can make Connor feel.

"Yeah?" Hank asks.

"Please," Connor repeats, and when Hank glances up he sees him touching his lower lip with his fingertips, eyes still closed, as if seeing what Hank's doing would be too much for him to take. "You know what I want."

"I do," Hank says; he kisses Connor's wrist again, messier than before, then reaches up to gently push his fingers away. "I've got you," he murmurs, then he closes the final few inches between them and kisses him.

It's a gentle kiss at first, nearly chaste; Connor is almost unnaturally still as Hank kisses him softly once, twice, and then he moans and grips Hank's shirt, holding him in place as he clumsily presses back against him. He bites Hank's lower lip in his excitement, a sweet spike of pain that shoots straight to Hank's cock, and pulls back to apologize.

"I'm sorry, I'm just—I'm excited," he pants, looking a little wild-eyed. "I want to taste you."

"Fuck, you can taste me all you want," Hank says, leaning his forehead against Connor's, "but there's no rush. Let's take our time, all right?"

"I'm impatient," Connor admits. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't be sorry. Do you know how flattering this is, to have you so worked up over kissing me? But we have plenty of time." Hank cups Connor's jaw, holding him still as he kisses him again. "I'm going to take care of you."

Connor nods and sighs shakily. "I know, I'm just—it's a lot of new sensations to adjust to."

"You'll tell me if it's too much?"

"It's not too much," Connor says quickly, leaning in to kiss Hank again.

Hank pulls away one more time. "But you'll tell me? I don't want you to feel rushed or overwhelmed by anything."

"I want to feel overwhelmed," Connor whispers. "There's so much of you to feel, so much more than I've experienced so far." His hand loosens its grip on Hank's shirt and tangles in his hair, holding him close. "I want to drown in you."

Before Hank can respond, Connor kisses him again, bolder and more insistent. He opens without hesitation when Hank tentatively licks at the seam of his mouth, moaning and tightening his hand in Hank's hair as if he's trying to pull him inside his mouth entirely. Kissing Connor does feel like being devoured, in a way, Hank thinks; he's just so hungry, so eager to taste him. 

As much as he's enjoying himself, Hank does his best to focus on making it a good experience for Connor. He can take his pleasure from knowing Connor's having a good time, if nothing else—and the experience of kissing a gorgeous, charming, enthusiastic partner is far better than "nothing else," of course—but beyond that, he just wants Connor to feel good, to be swept up in pleasure. He thinks, after what Connor told him today, that he can see the shadow of the guilt he feels hanging over him still, and while he can't absolve him of it, he thinks maybe he understands him better, now.

Connor is a man who deserves to be kissed as much as he wants, Hank thinks fiercely; whether  _ he _ deserves to be the one to kiss him, he isn't sure, but he's going to do his best to make it good for him. He's almost certainly overthinking it, but he's struck, as he wraps a hand around Connor's waist and feels him shiver beneath him, by how right it feels. How good it is to have someone so close, after so long keeping everyone at a distance.

"Fuck," Hank groans, pulling away just enough to duck his head down and kiss Connor along his jaw, just below his ear, while he whines and grasps clumsily at Hank's shoulders, trying to hold him close. "How's this, sweetheart? How're you feeling?"

"It's so good," Connor says, almost dreamily. "How do people ever stop?"

"I don't have to stop until you want me to," Hank says. He sucks Connor's earlobe into his mouth and tugs gently on it with his teeth, gratified by the sharp, surprised sound Connor makes in response. "I'm taking my time, remember? You just relax."

"It's hard to relax," Connor huffs. "My mouth is—it's very sensitive."

"Too sensitive?" Hank asks. He rubs a thumb over Connor's bottom lip. "Is this too much?"

"No," Connor says, "not too much, but..." he laps at Hank's thumb with the tip of his tongue, and Hank can't help but push it forward into the slick heat of Connor's mouth. 

He's felt Connor's tongue tentatively slide against his own, but here he can feel the texture more easily; it's slightly rough, irregularly textured in a way he isn't used to but not unpleasant to feel as Connor moans and sighs and sucks Hank's thumb while his LED stutters and flashes more erratically than Hank's ever seen it before. He slides it out just a bit, intending to push back in, but Connor makes a displeased noise and follows the motion of his hand, swallowing his thumb again before Hank has a chance to slide it back inside.

"Shit," he whispers. His cock is painfully hard in his pants, and it's impossible not to wonder if Connor would be just as happy with it shoved in his mouth as he is with Hank's thumb.

He strokes Connor's cheek with his fingers, and his eyes flutter open.

"You're so pretty like this." 

Connor moans around Hank's thumb, scraping his teeth slowly over the whorls of his fingerprint as he pulls away. "My mouth," he gasps, picking up where he'd left off before, "my mouth is incredibly sensitive. My analytical hardware is here, so—" he darts forward and licks messily at the hollow of Hank's throat, catching him by surprise. "I'm not just tasting you, I—ohh—I'm analyzing your body chemistry, breaking down the components of your saliva, your sweat. I can scan your fingerprint with my tongue, Hank, there's so much of you to take in." 

Hank doesn't understand, exactly, or at least doesn't understand why having his fingerprint on file is as much of an erotic experience as Connor seems to think it is, but he's not going to complain about it. "There's a lot of me, sure," he says. He's heard that one plenty of times before, albeit in a slightly different context. "You don't gotta take everything in at once, okay?"

"I want to," Connor says, almost as if he's pouting. "I want everything." He leans back, pulling Hank down over top of him as he reclines against the armrest, but Hank worries he'll fall off the sofa entirely; it's not quite roomy enough to fit two tall men lying down, and his knees aren't quite good enough to crouch on the floor beside it for long.

"Here, let's try something," Hank murmurs, pausing for a deep, leisurely kiss as he eases them back up again. "If you want to get real close," he says, patting his thigh, "why not come on up here?"

Connor scrambles up from the couch and settles himself on Hank's lap, pressing in as close as he can. "I like this," he murmurs, wrapping an arm around Hank's neck and planting the other on his chest. "I can feel so much more of you." He kisses Hank messily, almost frantically, plunging his tongue deep into Hank's mouth and blindly reaching for Hank's hands before settling them low on his waist. "Yes," he pants, when Hank squeezes his hips. "Please." 

"Anything," Hank says, voice hoarse; he's ready to give Connor whatever he wants. He kisses Connor's neck, his mouth, the hollow of his throat. "What do you need?"

"Your hands," Connor breathes. "Touch me."

Hank kneads Connor's upper thigh with one hand and cups the back of his neck with the other; as he strokes the soft skin with his fingertips, Connor shudders and whines above him. "I read you might be sensitive here," Hank murmurs, "but truth be told, it kinda seems like you're sensitive everywhere."

"I think—I think it's everywhere," Connor agrees. "You could touch any part of me and I'd love it." He twists his fingers in Hank's beard and tilts his chin up, regarding him intently. His eyes are wild, a little frenzied, even, as if he's barely able to restrain himself from—from what, Hank doesn't know. He can't remember a time he's been more turned on.

"You're easy to please, huh?" Hank can't move his head, tethered by Connor's firm grip as he is, but he doesn't particularly want to.

"Oh no," Connor says. He kisses Hank fiercely, sucking his tongue with an insistent, obscene pressure. "I'm quite particular in my desires." He shifts somehow closer, and Hank feels something—is it the thick seam of his trousers?—press against him as Connor rolls his hips in a steady, growing rhythm.

"It's just that you're exactly what I want," Connor says, in between kisses. "You can't help but please me."

Hank wants to object—he knows there are plenty of ways he could fail to please a partner—but Connor nips Hank's bottom lip as he pulls away, gently tugging it with his teeth, and everything happens very quickly afterwards.

Hank groans and grabs Connor's ass, shifting the angle of his motion enough that he grinds his cock (yes, holy fuck, Hank thinks, that's definitely Connor's cock) against Hank's where it's trapped hot and aching along his thigh.

Connor whines, then, a high, almost staticky sound, and slides off Hank's lap, pulling him off the couch by his biceps before Hank quite realizes he's being moved at all.

"What—" Hank sputters, but Connor doesn't reply; he just tugs him past the kitchenette, neatly sidestepping a large potted fern Hank almost stumbles over, and into the bedroom beyond it. 

There are plants lining the windowsill in here as well, of course, but they're just a fleeting impression of green in Hank's mind as Connor pulls him down onto the bed tucked into the corner and curls in close, kissing him hungrily and rutting against his thigh.

It would be so easy, Hank thinks, to be swept away in the flood of Connor's desire; he almost lets it happen. But Connor's kisses are so frantic, so desperate, and Hank realizes, when he opens his eyes, that the faint light blinking into the pillow under Connor's temple is stuttering from yellow to red almost too quickly for him to catch.

"Connor," he says, cupping his cheek. He leans back as Connor surges forward to kiss him again. "Hey. What's going on?"

"I want you," Connor says, breath hot against Hank's mouth.

"Fuck," Hank says. "Yeah, I get that. I want you too. But are you—is this what you want right now?"

"I don't understand."

"You're red," Hank says, brushing a thumb over Connor's LED, "and you just dragged me into bed without saying a word. Can we slow down for a second and talk about what's going on?" 

"I don't want to slow down," Connor says, almost panting against him, but Hank feels some tension bleed out of his posture as he huffs another hot breath between them.

"All right, but maybe I do," Hank says. He combs his fingers through Connor's hair and smiles when Connor leans into the touch. "What happened to taking our time?"

"Everything feels so good," Connor says. "It's hard not to want more. And you're—" he nudges his thigh between Hank's legs and rubs against his erection. "I know you're aroused as well and I haven't touched you at all, I just let you focus on me without reciprocating, so I thought it would be better to..." he shrugs. "I want to do this right."

"Connor," Hank says, gently, sitting up and disentangling their legs, "this isn't—"

"Don't leave," Connor blurts out, frantic.

"Hey, hey, I'm not going anywhere." Hank settles his hands over Connor's and rubs his thumbs over his knuckles. "I want to talk things through."

"I didn't mean to spoil the mood."

"You aren't spoiling anything." Hank kisses Connor's hand, then bends down to kiss his cheek. "But I don't want us to be in a rush, you know? Just because my dick is hard doesn't mean you have to do anything about it."

"I want to," Connor protests. "I don't want to be selfish, to feel so much pleasure without giving you any in return."

"Oh, honey," Hank says. "You think I don't love being with you like this?" He kisses Connor's hand again, letting his lips brush his knuckles as he speaks. "There's nothing selfish about enjoying yourself, but if you're worried I'm just biding my time until we can get to something else, you're wrong."

"You don't want more?"

"Anything we do together, it's only good if it's what we both want. It would be shitty of me to tell you what you want, or what you're ready for or not, but a minute ago you seemed—I don't know, like something was a little off, and I don't want you to push through it if you feel that way." 

"I've had a lot of time to imagine what this would feel like," Connor says, quietly. He isn't looking at Hank, but he at least returns a gentle squeeze to his hand. "I knew, even before I met you, that I was interested in physical intimacy, but it was an unfocused desire, just something I knew I wanted to experience in an abstract sense. I thought I understood what it would feel like for you to be so close, to feel your hands and your mouth on me, but it's so much more than what I was prepared for."

Connor tugs Hank back down beside him on the bed. He tucks himself into Hank's shoulder and slings a leg over his thigh, as if he's trying to get as close as possible. Hank wraps an arm over his shoulder and feels the rest of the frantic tension begin to bleed out of Connor's body. His own breathing slows as Connor relaxes into his embrace.

"I'm not sure how to describe what happened, just now. Nothing was uncomfortable, but I felt a bit..." he falls silent for a moment. Hank rubs his back in long, slow strokes while he waits for Connor to continue. He has a suspicion of how Connor might have been feeling, but it seems important to let him come to his own conclusions; the last thing Hank wants to do is try and explain Connor's own feelings back to him, whether he's right or not.

"I didn't expect to find a significant difference between what I wanted, in a general sense, and what felt right in the moment," Connor says, finally. "To be clear, Hank, I know I want to explore physical intimacy of all kinds with you. I want to have sex with you. Knowing that you're aroused, that you feel desire for me as well, is exhilarating. It's almost more than I can handle, just to know that I want to experience these things, and that you might want to, as well."

"There's no 'might' about it," Hank says, settling his hand low on Connor's back, and Connor hums happily and stretches up to give him a brief kiss. It's soft, almost tentative, and Hank catches his chin as he pulls away and kisses him again.

Connor sighs and melts into the kiss. "This is perfect," he says. "I believe I allowed myself to get overstimulated, before. I need to take more time to adjust to the experience, if that's all right." 

"Take all the time you need," Hank says. "I'm not going anywhere." He kisses the corner of Connor's mouth, then reconsiders. "Eventually I gotta go home to my dog, of course, but. You know, in general. I want to keep seeing you like this, Connor. There's no race to the finish line that has to happen."

"I want everything at once," Connor says, "but I know it would be too much. It's frustrating."

"I get that." It's been a long time since Hank felt that way, desire bubbling with a giddy mix of anticipation and apprehension, but he remembers, if only vaguely, what it was like. "Sometimes you want something but know you aren't ready for it yet. It's better to recognize it than push through and go with it anyway, I think."

"Still, Hank, I can't help but be frustrated to have you in my bed, a scenario I have already considered in great detail, and not feel as prepared to have sex with you as I assumed I would be, if and when the time came."

Hank tries not to get caught up in wondering what "in great detail" entails as he responds; but it's a compelling thought. "How about," he says, "you think about what you do feel prepared for right now, and we can focus on that." He pats Connor's back and slides his hand down to squeeze his hip. "Cuddling up on me all sweet like you are, that's good, right?"

Connor nods. "You feel so nice like this."

"Yeah?"

"Mmm." Connor nuzzles Hank's chest. "You're soft and warm. Very comfortable."

Hank snorts. "Not every guy would love being called soft, but I can't deny it. Guess it's good you like it."

"I do," Connor says. He rubs his hand over the curve of Hank's gut, then slips it lower and taps his fingernail on Hank's 

belt buckle. "I like you hard, too."

"Jesus," Hank sputters. "The mouth on you."

"Speaking of my mouth, I'd like to suck your fingers again," Connor says, tapping his lips with a finger as if Hank needs any help finding them.

"Sure," Hank says, but Connor shakes his head and sets Hank's hand aside when he reaches up.

"You should kiss me first, though," he murmurs.

"Bossy," Hank replies, kissing his temple, his cheek, his jaw.

"You like it," Connor says, and god help him, but Hank does. He really does. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone following along either here or on twitter! Your comments are really keeping me going. 💖


	8. Chapter 8

Connor's hurried impatience to be touched seems to have faded, a bit; he's still eager, and incredibly responsive, but Hank no longer feels like he's wound so tightly with anticipation that he's about to explode. Connor combs his fingers through Hank's hair and sighs into his mouth and presses close, as close as he can, while Hank pets his back, his thigh, the slight curve of his hip.

"Look at you," Hank says, when Connor pulls back to exhale a long, hot breath. He suspects he's venting heat, but now's not the time to go into the particulars of Connor's hardware; he tries to remember to ask him later on. He's curious, just focused elsewhere, for the moment. Focused on how lovely Connor looks in his arms.

"You're gorgeous like this," he continues. "You've never had one hair out of place before, but I like it a little messy like it is now." He reaches up to tousle it further.

"I like that you're the one who messed it up," Connor replies. "The thought of it is very erotic to me."

"Is it?"

"Yes," Connor says. He shakes his head gently, and a stray curl flops down over his forehead. "I pride myself on my neat appearance—many androids do. It was part of our programming, of course, but you may notice, as I have, that quite a few androids, are very put-together in public, even beyond our common employment in jobs that require a uniform. It's comfortable for us, I suppose."

"I can understand that," Hank says.

"But the idea of intimacy leaving me...disheveled in some way, marked or messy, is very appealing." 

Connor's eyelashes drop and flutter when he says "messy," and the tip of his tongue peeks out from between his lips, and Hank can't help but picture him with his sweater hanging off one shoulder and his perfect cheekbones streaked with Hank's come. He closes his eyes and stifles a low groan. "Yeah," he says, voice rough, "That's appealing to me, too."

"I'd love to tell you other things I've thought about," Connor says, "but I'd like to ask you something first. Earlier, you said you'd read I might be sensitive here, on the back of my neck." He taps the area in question. "What were you reading?"

Hank blushes like he's been caught peeping. "I hope it isn't weird," he says, "but I did a little research. I wasn't sure if androids had, like, different parts, or felt pleasure differently, or what. Not that you're all the same," he scrambles to say, as Connor's gaze gets more intense, "but I didn't know anything at all, and I wanted to have some sort of idea what you might like, if things got that far. I didn't want to just bumble around like an idiot, you know?"

"Interesting," Connor purrs, and Hank realizes he's not annoyed or weirded out by this at all. He's into it.

"I found a couple diagrams," he continues. "They showed where a lot of androids are more sensitive, like the wiring's closer to the surface, or something."

"What did you learn?" Connor asks. He's kneeling over Hank now, hand braced on his chest.

"I know all models aren't the same, so I don't know about you, specifically," Hank says, "but the site I found said there are some common areas where many androids are more sensitive, so it was a place to start, at least."

"Show me," Connor says. "Not—not all of them, not right now, but I want you to show me what it feels like." 

"Push your sleeves up for me?" Hank asks. Instead, Connor grins and sits back, grabbing the hem of his sweater and pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. The thin t-shirt beneath it gets tugged halfway off as he does so; Hank gets an enticing peek at Connor's navel before the shirt falls back down.

"I hope this is all right," Connor says, fingering the hem of the thin shirt after he folds the sweater and places it behind them at the foot of the bed. Hank's not sure, exactly, what he's worried about, but he knows that whatever it is won't be an issue.

"You're good," he says, and from the softening of Connor's eyes and the slight relaxation of his posture, he thinks it was the right response. "Now, I did this before and you seemed to like it, but let's try again." He cradles one of Connor's hands gently in one palm while he wraps the other hand around Connor's wrist. "From what I read," he says, "one of those spots was somewhere in here."

Hank drags his fingertips up the underside of Connor's arm, from his wrist to his elbow, marveling as he does so at how finely-detailed his skin is; there are down-fine hairs scattered beneath his touch, and a few small moles, and even the faint blue of veins that seem to run underneath it. He glances up to see Connor staring wide-eyed at the path of his fingers as they slowly stroke up and down his arm; his LED is blinking yellow and cycling at a moderate, steady pace. "You all right?" Hank asks, slowing but not stopping the movement of his hand. "How's that feel?"

Connor closes his eyes. "It's difficult to describe," he says. "I'm trying to determine if I'm more sensitive here than in other areas, but I'm not sure if—" his voice breaks off as Hank's thumbnail grazes the underside of his wrist.

"What was that?" Hank asks. He presses more firmly as he drags his fingertips over that same spot, and Connor sighs out a soft, shaky moan. "Did I hit the jackpot?"

"Yes," Connor says. "Hank, you—you kissed me here, before."

"I did, and you seemed pretty impatient for me to move on to something else, if I recall."

"Now," Connor says, "I'd like you to get back to it."

The fact that Hank immediately brings Connor's wrist to his mouth really does show, he realizes, how much he likes Connor's bossy streak. "Yes, sir," he says, and while it's a joke, of course it's a joke, the rush of heat he feels across his face is real. It feels good to give Connor what he asks for.

"Tell me how it feels," he murmurs, after he presses the first gentle kiss to Connor's arm.

"I feel like I'm lighting up beneath your touch," Connor says, dreamily. "As if every point of contact is illuminated by your mouth, your hands. I feel the pulse running through your fingertips. I feel—ohh," he moans, trailing off when Hank scrapes his teeth gently against his skin. "Everything you do to me feels incredible."

"I don't know if you're extra sensitive here, or if you just like me kissing you that much," Hank says with a laugh.

"I'm not certain either," Connor admits. "Touching myself doesn't create anything near the intense sensations I feel right now, or that I've experienced when you've touched me elsewhere. I haven't made many discoveries of this sort in..." he trails off, looking embarrassed.

Hank doesn't want to push, but he does want to hear the end of that sentence. "In?" He prompts gently. He returns his attention to kissing Connor, happy to let the matter drop if he doesn't want to continue.

Connor's quiet for a minute, save for occasional soft, low sounds of pleasure as Hank maps out the places that get the best response. "In my brief exploration of masturbation," he says, eventually. "It's difficult to stimulate myself physically, although the process is still enjoyable."

"That's good at least," Hank says. "That you enjoyed it." He doesn't feel like quite as much of a dirty old man for how hot he finds it to picture Connor laid out on this bed and methodically exploring his own body, knowing that even if he can't get himself off that way he can still find some pleasure in it.

"I thought about you," Connor says, and Hank groans and presses his lips to Connor's palm.

"Yeah?" he asks, voice hoarse. "You want to tell me about it?"

"I imagined my hands were larger, when I touched myself." Connor presses his hand to Hank's; his palm is smaller, but his fingers are almost as long, slim and elegant where Hank's feel thick and clumsy. "I have the dimensions of your hands stored in my preconstruction program."

"Your what?"

"I hope it's all right," Connor says nervously. "I only scanned your hands; I thought it would be invasive and inappropriate to go further than that."

"It's okay," Hank says, because his hands are obviously unharmed by whatever Connor did to scan them, "but what exactly is this program?"

Connor keeps his grip on Hank's hand as he settles back down beside him, pillowing his head on his shoulder and resting their joined hands on his chest. "It's part of the programming I was given for my original function," he says. "I can use information gathered from my environment to examine and observe potential future events. I was intended to use it to apprehend deviant androids, but now..." he shrugs. "Now it's an effective way to explore sexual fantasies in detail."

"That's one way to stick it to the man," Hank says. "Use your fancy tools to have sexy daydreams."

"It's a bit like daydreaming, I think," Connor says, "although it's difficult for me to draw a comparison between how our minds process imaginative impulses." He nuzzles into Hank's chest and slings a leg back over his thigh. "My understanding, though, is that your daydreams can be abstract representations. When I think about your hands, Hank, I know exactly how large they are, how much of my body they can cover at once. I know the diameter of each of your fingers." 

"What do you need to know that for?" Hank asks. He grazes his fingertips over Connor's temple, across his cheekbone, down to curl underneath his jaw.

"So I know how much room they'll take up in my mouth," he says. "As I said, I knew it would be invasive to scan anything else." 

"You want to test your fancy daydream software against the real thing?" Hank offers his first two fingers, and Connor leans forward eagerly to suck them into his mouth.

Connor's eyes flutter shut and he moans around Hank's fingers, sounding overcome with desire.

"Holy shit," Hank says, almost in awe. "This really does it for you, huh?"

Connor moans again in response.

Hank's never thought much about having his fingers sucked one way or the other; he's had partners do it to him before, but it was always a prelude to getting his dick sucked, a little tease to let Hank know what he had to look forward to. No one seemed particularly thrilled by it beyond that. But Connor's clearly getting into it: he's licking over the pads of Hank's fingers, varying the suction, and very slowly bobbing his head as he takes the full length of Hank's fingers into his mouth.

He pictures what Connor would look like with his cock in his mouth instead, its girth stretching his lips wider, that hot, textured tongue mapping out every inch with eager intensity, and the hot ache of his arousal spreads and deepens.

"This is a hell of a thing to watch," Hank says. "I know I told you already how gorgeous you look, but fuck, Connor." He buries his hand in Connor's unruly hair and holds his head steady as he presses his fingers just a hair deeper before pulling them out entirely. Connor chases them as they retreat, mouth open and ready, but Hank tips his chin up and Connor gets the message, leaning up to give him a kiss.

"I'm taking in so much of you," he murmurs, between kisses. "There's so much data I can taste; it's almost more than I can handle."

"You need a break?" Hank asks, but Connor shakes his head.

"No. Not yet."

"What do you need?" Hank kisses him again. "I just want you to feel good."

He doesn't want to push; "not yet" might mean "but I will in a moment," and if that's the case he wants to stay alert so he doesn't overstep. But Connor's so happy to be touched, so sweet and responsive, that as long as he wants more, Hank wants to give it to him.

"I want to get lost in you," Connor says, nuzzling into Hank's beard and kissing his neck. "Please, Hank, just like this." 

Hank rolls on his side, cradling Connor's head in one hand and settling the other low on his back, pulling him in close. Connor tentatively nudges Hank's thighs with his knee, slipping his leg between them when Hank makes room. There's barely any space separating them, and once Hank kisses Connor again, when he sighs and shivers and melts into his embrace, it doesn't feel like there's any separation between them at all.

"This what you want?" Hank asks. He drags his nails over the back of Connor's neck and swallows his moan with a kiss.

"Yes," Connor murmurs against Hank's mouth, as if he can't bear to draw back any farther than he has to in order to speak. "Yes, Hank." He slides his hand over Hank's bicep, his shoulder, his side, kneading and petting and clearly enjoying the feel of him.

It's been a long time since Hank's leisurely made out with someone like this, long enough ago he isn't even sure how many years it's been, but it's something he's always enjoyed. He likes a quick fuck well enough, sure, but when he's able to take his time with someone, when he can be intimate without worrying about being in a rush or having their privacy invaded, it's a wonderful luxury to indulge in. He's mostly hard, still, but his arousal feels more like a spreading warmth through his body, sweet and slow like honey, than a desperate need. His dick isn't the focus, right now, and he's happy with that. Happy to keep his attention on Connor and what he wants.

"You feeling good?" Hank murmurs in Connor's ear, after a few minutes. He licks the shell of his ear, nips at his earlobe, presses a messy kiss to the underside of his jaw. It's pretty clear that he is, of course, but he likes to ask directly; plus, he's willing to admit to himself, if not to Connor, that he really fucking likes to hear the answer. He still doesn't entirely understand why he's so appealing to Connor, but it's a hell of an ego boost, even if it's confusing. 

"Mmm," Connor replies, somewhere between a sigh and a moan. He sounds drunk, almost, and his eyes are slightly unfocused as he gazes at Hank.

"That sounds like a yes." Hank kisses his ear again, and curls his palm around Connor's hip, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Tell me how you're feeling, honey?"

"I'm feeling so much," Connor says. "Hank, your hand—"

"Yeah?" Hank squeezes again, a little harder.

Connor's hips stutter forward, pressing his cock against Hank's thigh, and they groan in unison. Connor rocks into him again, almost hesitantly, then stills himself, panting warm air against Hank's chest. "It's too good," he murmurs. "I want too much."

"There's no 'too much' here," Hank says. "What do you want, Connor? It's okay."

"I'm not sure how much more stimulation I can handle without becoming completely overwhelmed." 

He'd said, earlier, that he wanted to be overwhelmed; still, Hank is cautious. "Do we need to stop?" He starts to pull back, put some space between them, but Connor's hand clamps down on Hank's wrist, pinning his hand to his hip. He's surprisingly strong.

"No, please, I think—" he grinds into Hank's thigh slowly, deliberately. "I want to feel it. If I shut down, or lose consciousness for a moment, it's all right."

"If you—what?" Hank tries again to pull back, but Connor's grip remains firm. "Is that safe?"

"It's all right," Connor repeats; it sounds like an answer to a different question. He squeezes Hank's wrist while rutting against his thigh again, a clear signal, then lets go. "Please."

Hank hears, then, in Connor's voice, the same frantic note that had given him pause earlier. He vaguely considers hitting the brakes again, but Connor's so sweet and sincere, so open about his desires, and so beautifully desperate to get off—or whatever it is that he's building to, which Hank's brief research didn't explain in detail—that Hank can't find it in him to deny him anything.

Hank tenses his thigh, pressing back against Connor as he tightens his grip on his hip, pulling him forward. Connor groans, a low, almost staticky sound, and lets himself be led by the slow, steady rhythm Hank establishes.

"How's that?" Hank asks; Connor seems barely able to answer, but his nod and his soft, heavy-lidded eyes are answer enough. "Good," he says. "You just take what you need from me. I'm here."

Connor moans at that, his hips stuttering for a moment, and surges forward for a desperate kiss, throwing his leg over Hank's so he's nearly straddling his thigh. 

"There you go," Hank murmurs, when they break apart. Connor's too far gone to focus on kissing; he pants and moans into Hank's shoulder while he braces himself on the bed and grinds down on Hank's thigh, pushing the pace faster. "How's it feel?"

"I don't..." Connor shakes his head. "It's so much to take in, I—" he bites his lip and grabs a fistful of Hank's shirt. "Oh—"

It's the hottest goddamn thing in the world, Hank thinks, seeing Connor so close to shaking apart like this, feeling the hard, hot line of his cock pressing against the bulk of his thigh.

"Oh," Connor sighs again, almost shaking. "Oh, Hank, I—"

And then he makes a tight, panicked sound and pulls back, moving away so quickly and so forcefully that he nearly tumbles off the bed. Hank's so startled that he doesn't think to reach for him until the moment passes.

"Oh no," Connor says, "I'm sorry, I had to—I couldn't—" he shakes his head. "I made a mistake."

Something dark and heavy settles deep in Hank's chest; the weight of it forces the air out of Hank's lungs in a rush. His hands fall heavy and useless to the bed. "Do you need me to go?"

"Not unless you..." Connor looks hurt, which just makes Hank feel worse, but then he blinks and shakes his head again, reaching out to touch Hank's hand. Just a brush of his fingers, just for a moment, but it's enough. "Not all of this, Hank. Not today. You aren't a mistake."

"Okay," Hank says. He pulls himself up to sit against the wall, close enough for Connor to reach out to him if he wants but far enough to give him some space. "Can you tell me what happened? Did I hurt you?" He thinks about the frantic desperation in Connor's voice, a minute ago, and wonders if he should have listened to that small impulse he had to slow things down again.

"I think," Connor says, carefully, "I overestimated my capacity for new experiences today. I find it difficult, when I'm around you, to practice any kind of moderation." 

"I guess you did have a lot of firsts today, huh," Hank says. "I—do you want to talk about it? I don't want to push you if you'd rather not, I just..." He reaches a hand out, hesitantly. "Can I touch you? Is that okay?"

"I'm not certain how to explain what just happened," Connor says. "I'm not entirely sure I understand it, myself, but I do think I'd like to try." He takes Hank's hand and loosely cradles it in his own, staring at it instead of meeting Hank's eye. "And yes, Hank, of course it's all right to touch me. I think I'd prefer it." 

"I don't want to assume anything right now," Hank says. There's no "of course" in play at the moment, as far as he can tell. He's suddenly aware of how much space he takes up on Connor's narrow bed, how large and clumsy he feels. "Seems like I made you pretty uncomfortable, a moment ago, and I don't want to make anything worse."

"It wasn't you making me uncomfortable, it was—" Connor frowns. "How much do you know about how sexual response or orgasm work, for androids?"

"Shit," Hank says, with a nervous laugh, "my research didn't get that far. I mean, beyond personal experience I'm not sure I could tell you how all that works in people, not the mechanics of it, but I definitely don't know how it works for you."

"The moment of climax, for an android, is an overflow of sensory data. We can only process so much at once; there comes a point when resonating sensory feedback, error notifications and attempts to categorize or analyze data from sexual contact stack and interact with each other in a way that becomes completely overwhelming. It causes a cascading effect where we lose access to more and more auxiliary functions until our systems flood completely, requiring a momentary shutdown or restart."

"So when you told me you might shut down, that was your way of saying you were close? That you almost..."

"I very nearly had an orgasm, yes." He presses his thumb into Hank's palm, rubbing slow, small circles into it as he continues. "It was incredible. I've never experienced physical pleasure like that before; to be honest, I didn't quite believe that much pleasure was something I could experience at all." He falls silent for a moment, staring at Hank's hand as if he's trying to read his palm.

"I mentioned before," Connor continues eventually, "that I was a prototype. An advanced model. Some of my more advanced sensory features translate to greater sensitivity in sexual situations, but it also means I'm taking in and processing more data."

"Does that mean it's easier to get overwhelmed? To—to come, I guess?"

"I think it must be," Connor says. "But, Hank, does it ever feel frightening to you? The loss of control, the feeling of being overcome with sensation?"

"I haven't felt that way, but I think I can understand why you would," Hank says. "Is that how you were feeling, just now? Like you weren't in control of what was happening?"

"Not entirely," Connor says. "There was no loss of agency, or of consent, of course, but the strength of my desire pulled me along in ways I didn't expect."

"Like when you dragged me in here?"

Connor nods, looking a little embarrassed; Hank's pretty sure he'd be blushing, if he had the ability.

"Listen, being hauled around was hot," Hank says. "Not a lot of folks can do that. No need to apologize for it."

"I won't, but it wasn't what I intended for tonight. Beyond that, though, when I—when I had nearly reached climax, that was what felt entirely outside of my control, what felt frightening. So much of what we've shared today is entirely new to me, and the thought of giving in to that overload of information, of allowing myself to be flooded with sensation so much that I'd have to reset some systems entirely...it was too much, in the end. It scared me."

It was just a few hours ago, Hank remembers, that he'd given Connor what had turned out to be his first hug. Shit. "Have we been taking things a little too fast?"

"I don't want the answer to be yes," Connor says. "But perhaps we have." 

"I'm sorry," Hank tries to say, but Connor shakes his head.

"Everything we did, I wanted," he says, before Hank can get the words out. "You asked what I needed, and I told you; all I could do at the time was give voice to my desire. I thought I was ready for everything I wanted, and I had no way to know otherwise before you gave it to me."

"Maybe I should have, I don't know, known it would be too much," Hank says. "Tried to put the brakes on a bit."

"If you'd presumed to tell me you knew better than I did what would be too much, I would have been upset with you," Connor says, and Hank winces a little.

"Okay, that's fair. I'd be upset with me too, in that case."

"You gave me several opportunities to slow things down," Connor says, "and I chose not to, because I didn't want to." He slips his fingers between Hank's. "I still don't. But I think I should."

It's decades in the past, now, but Hank can remember what it's like to know he needs to back off and slow way the hell down when that's the last thing he actually wants to do. "Then let's do that," he says.

"You aren't disappointed?"

Hank shakes his head. "Don't get me wrong," he says. "If you said you wanted me to help you figure out how many times you could come in one night, I'd be all for it. But I'm a patient guy; if you want to take things slow for now, I'm happy with that too."

"The thing is," Hank continues, pushing forward before he can talk himself out of it, "I know we haven't even known each other for long, but..."

Connor leans into Hank's shoulder. "What is it?"

"It—it really feels like there's something special between us, you know? And I don't need to rush that. If you want to slow things down, I take it you want to keep doing this? Spending time together?"

"I do," Connor says. "Nothing about that has changed."

"Hell, that's good enough for me. I care about that more than getting you in bed."

"Thank you," Connor says. "I know sex is an important component of relationships, for many people; I appreciate you being patient with me."

"It's not a hardship," Hank says. "I don't want you thinking that, okay? And—" his mind finishes processing the whole of what Connor had said. "Is that what you want? A relationship?"

"Is that all right?" Connor asks, very quietly.

"Of course it is," Hank says. "I didn't want to assume anything, is all, and I—" he laughs. "I guess I never expected anyone else would be interested. But yeah, yes, I want that too."

It feels strange, in a way, to even say those words, and he suspects he'll find a way to second-guess himself later, when he's alone and it's easier for doubts to creep in. He closes his eyes and kisses the top of Connor's head, breathing in the faint, inhuman scent of him. Some day, if he's lucky, it'll be a familiar comfort, a scent he breathes in happily after time apart.

"It's like you said," Connor murmurs. "I agree that there's something special, here. Between us. I was drawn to you the moment we met, and I want to explore that." 

Maybe someday, Hank will feel brave enough to ask Connor what on earth he saw in him, that first day in the garden, that was so compelling. He's thankful for it, and thankful Connor was so forward with him, but he's not sure he understands it.

For now, though, he tells himself he doesn't have to understand it. If Connor wants a relationship as much as he does (and it surprises him, a little, how much he does want one), that's what he wants to focus on. That shared desire. This one, at least, they both feel ready to act on now. The rest will hopefully come with time.

"I'm not sure what to do now, though," Connor says, sounding a bit lost.

"Relationship-wise, or right this minute?"

"Both," Connor says. "I know as much about being in a romantic relationship as I knew about kissing this morning, which is to say it's a subject I've thought about in detail but know nothing about from a practical angle."

"We'll figure it out," Hank says, even as he thinks on how disastrously his last relationship ended. How many friends he's pushed away in the past few years. "We can talk about what we want, but I think the most important part is that we keep spending time together, getting to know each other. Whatever you're comfortable with. For now, though..." he thinks about the plants lining the shelves in the living room, the fern he'd nearly tripped over, the spindly plants tucked into the piece of driftwood on the wall. "Do you want to tell me about some of your collection, out there? Those weird driftwood guys and the spider plants and the rest?"

"If you're interested, I'd be happy to."

"Sure I'm interested," Hank says. "I came to the garden for a reason, that first time. I may not know much about plants, but I like 'em, and you can fill me in on yours. Plus, I like hearing you talk about them."

Connor smiles at that. "Then yes, I'd be happy to tell you about my favorite houseplants." He gives Hank's hand a final squeeze and leads him out of the bedroom.

Hank hadn't noticed, before, that it had gotten dark. It had happened so gradually, when he wasn't paying attention to anything but Connor, that it doesn't hit him until he sees the deep blue of dusk outside the windows. "Shit, what time is it?" he asks, fishing in his pocket for his phone. Connor beats him to it.

"It's 8:42," he says. "Have I kept you too long?"

"Nah," Hank says, waving him off. "I do probably need to get home before too long, but there's no rush." He fingers a broad, glossy leaf waving at him from a nearby shelf. "You want to tell me about this one, first?"

It's another half-hour at least before Hank decides he really does need to head out. He hasn't eaten since early afternoon, for one thing, and while Sumo is probably still worn out from his park excursion, he'll appreciate some dinner as well.

"I should probably get your number," Hank says, as he continues the slow, reluctant walk to the door that's already been interrupted twice by stories about Connor's solitary attempts at cooking (a disaster) and propagating monstera cuttings (an unqualified success). "That way we don't have to wait until I manage to find you at work to talk."

"I'd like that," Connor says. "Can I see your phone?"

Hank hands it over after opening his contacts, thinking he'll type in a number, but Connor just cradles it in his palm for a few seconds, LED flickering yellow, before he smiles and gives it back. "Now we're connected," he says.

"What, am I going to just text your brain?"

"More or less," Connor says. "That's probably the easiest way to think about it." He takes a step closer. "I want to kiss you good night, if that's all right."

"Sure it is," Hank says, "as long as that feels all right to you."

"I don't think I can go back to not kissing you at all," Connor says. He slips his arms around Hank's waist and leans into his chest. "This, too. I don't want to stop touching you altogether just because I need to slow things down a little."

"It's up to you," Hank says. "If this is good for you, it's good for me too." He cradles the back of Connor's head in one hand, thumb brushing along his hairline. "Hell of an understatement, really."

It's another five minutes before Hank manages to pull away and make his reluctant way home. He's hungry, and a little tired, unused to talking so much for so long, but more than anything else, he realizes, he's happy. It's not always a feeling he trusts, but for the moment he decides to let himself enjoy it.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not always sure when to change an M to an E rating, but this chapter was definitely the time. Enjoy!

Hank's in a bit of a daze as he drives home, makes a late dinner out of what he has hanging around in the fridge, and collapses on the couch while he eats. He turns on a movie but only half-watches it, losing the plot nearly immediately; in the end he rifles through his records instead, keeping the volume low so the opening bars of Chicago Transit Authority fade into a pleasing background noise while he sinks back into the couch and tries to let his mind drift instead of immediately picking apart everything that's happened today. 

He can't help but think about Connor, of course, but he wants to think about him smiling as he threw a ball to Sumo, or relaxing into Hank's embrace, or the surprised delight in his eyes when Hank kissed his hand for the first time. Better to think on those moments, on how perfectly his hand fit around Connor's hip and how sweetly he sighed into Hank's mouth, than to dwell on any of the worries he has about his ability to sustain a relationship. About why on earth someone like Connor was drawn to him.

Hank's hand lands on his pocket as he absently taps his thigh in time to the music, and he thinks to check his phone for the first time since arriving home. He has two messages, neither of them particularly surprising.

The first, from Ben, had been sent early in the evening: How'd the date go?

The second, from a new contact named Connor with a little houseplant emoji next to the name and sent just after he left Connor's apartment, reads: Hello Hank, it's me, Connor. Thank you again for spending your afternoon and evening with me today. I look forward to spending more time with you.

An additional text, timestamped five minutes later, reads: I hope it's all right to say I look forward, specifically, to kissing you again.

"You and me both," Hank says, as he hauls himself up from the couch and switches off the lights and the turntable. It isn't that late, but he'd rather try to sleep than let himself get too caught up in his thoughts.

TRY TO DESERVE HIM, he scrawls onto a post-it in the bathroom, sticking it on the edge of the mirror at eye level where he'll be forced to stare at it every time he brushes his teeth.

While Sumo snuffles around outside one last time, Hank pokes at his phone. He sends Ben a short reply:

>date went well, I think, I'll fill you in later

He stares at Connor's messages for longer, long enough that Sumo returns to the door and bumps it with his nose, ready to come back inside, before he knows what to say.

_ Don't overthink this _ , he tells himself. It's not like he has to compose a sonnet in response.

>glad you had a good time

>any time you want to let me know you're excited about kissing is fine by me

The reply is almost instantaneous.

**> >I'll make sure to tell you often, then. I've been thinking about your mouth since you left.**

"Jesus," Hank groans. "He's just gonna say shit like that all the time, isn't he?" He should probably start getting used to it.

>been thinking about you too

>good night, Connor, I'd say sweet

dreams but I'm not sure if you have them or not. do you sleep?

**> >Not exactly, but when I go into stasis I often sort through and process newly-acquired data; it's a way to organize my thoughts about recent experiences.**

>sweet data-processing then, I guess

**> >It's data about you, so I'm sure I'll enjoy it.**

>g'night, sweet talker

**> >Good night, Hank.**

They fall into a rhythm, over the course of the next couple weeks: if Hank has the time on his break, and Connor's working that day, he'll text him to find out where in the garden he's working and swing by to say hello. They never have much time, certainly not as much as Hank wants, but he finds that he enjoys feeling the sun on his face and watching the slow transformation of the garden as the later-spring flowers start to bloom almost as much as the few moments he can steal with Connor. When he's working somewhere out of the way, they're willing to risk a moment of contact: a hand held for a moment, a palm pressed to Hank's chest, a brief kiss on Connor's cheek. No matter what either of them may want beyond that, they don't want to risk Connor's job by indulging further when he's at work.

There are several days in a row when Connor's assigned to the rose garden, pruning the bushes as unobtrusively as possible while visitors pose under the trellis and admire the flowers around him.

They can't talk, much, on those days; the rose garden is much more open, more landscaped than the rest of the garden, and more visitors congregate here than they do in some of the more out-of-the-way areas. Hank likes seeing Connor anyway, likes an excuse to tell him he's looking good, that Sumo misses him, that he's making the rosebushes look even better with his careful attention.

Connor smiles at the compliment and thanks him, but his response is subdued in a way Hank isn't used to. "I don't want you to think you always have to be on for me," he says, gently, "and if you're just not feeling it today, I'll back off, but is something wrong?"

"This part of the garden is difficult to work in, sometimes," Connor says. He eyes the rosebush in front of him warily, then reaches in to prune a cane from its center.

"Too crowded?" Hank looks over at a group of teenagers laughing as they cluster around a yellow rosebush, taking turns smelling the largest flower. "Or are you not a rose guy?"

"Definitely not a rose guy," Connor says, with a small smile, and Hank's glad to see that it reaches his eyes. "I have a negative association with them from before I worked here."

"From before? During your time at Cyberlife?" Hank still doesn't know much about what happened during that time, and whatever it was seems like it was bad enough that he's not going to ask for details.

Connor nods. "It's not something I can easily explain now, but I think I'd like to tell you about it. Can I call you tonight?"

"Of course." Hank risks setting his hand on Connor's shoulder for just a moment, long enough to give it a gentle squeeze before he pulls away and shoves his hands in his pockets so he won't be tempted to reach out again.

"You'll be all right until then?"

"I have to be," Connor says. "It's my job. But yes, it's something I've had to get used to. Just an unpleasant memory."

It's more complicated than that, Hank suspects, but he won't push. If he's right, Connor doesn't need him bumbling around and making things worse, and either way they can't exactly have a real conversation about it here. "I'll let you get back to it," he says, as much as he'd rather stay, "but it'll be good to talk later."

"I wish I could kiss you." Connor says it to the rosebush, but he flicks his eyes up to meet Hank's for a moment.

"Yeah," Hank says. "We'll make it happen soon, all right?" He wants to pull Connor to his feet for a hug, to kiss him, to tell him — he isn't sure what. Instead, he gives an awkward wave and strides out of the rose garden, trying to bend his attention back towards the work that's waiting for him when he returns.

He pauses at the lilac bushes on the way past; there are fewer blooms now, but some clusters of flowers remain, throwing off their strong perfume and attracting bees and butterflies. He inhales deeply, pulling the scent into his lungs like he could take it with him if he breathed in enough of it. Maybe he should get a little plant to put on his desk, he thinks, if there's one that would survive his windowless office space.

Hank asks Connor about it when he calls that night, just after he gets back from taking Sumo for his evening walk. "Can I ask you a plant question, or is that like asking a lawyer for legal advice on their day off?"

"I don't mind," Connor says. "I enjoy talking about my work, or about gardening in general, and I don't have many people to talk to. What do you want to know?"

"I thought about getting a little plant for my desk at work, but I'm not near a window. Is there some sort of houseplant that can survive without sunlight? Something I have a reasonable chance of keeping alive?"

"Oh!" Connor seems pleased by the question. "You have a few options, actually, although it does depend on the size you're looking for and whether your desk gets any natural light at all. Do you mind something that's foliage only, or would you like something that blooms?"

"I haven't thought that far about it," Hank says, "but I guess I'm fine either way."

"There are fewer options if you want a flowering plant, but we could find one for you, I think. There's an excellent nursery in town where I purchased many of my plants; I could send you a list of suitable plants to show to the staff there if you want to look over your options in person before buying anything."

"You could do that," Hank says, "but I thought you might want to come with me instead, give me your expert opinion."

"I'd love to come," Connor says. "I didn't want to invite myself along, but yes, that sounds lovely."

"You invite yourself along to whatever you want," Hank says. "I want to see you, you know that."

"I do, don't I?" Connor says, like he's half surprised to hear it.

"I fucking hope you do," Hank says. "Getting to see you this afternoon was the best part of my day."

Connor sighs. "I hope my feelings about working in the rose garden didn't put a damper on things; I'm sure I wasn't at my best when you came by."

"Hey, no," Hank says. "If you're feeling shitty, feel shitty. I'm not going to be mad about it. I was there to see you, however you were feeling."

"Thank you."

"I'm happy to listen, if you want to talk about whatever it is, but if you'd rather not, we can talk about something else. Your call."

"I'd like to," Connor says. "It's another experience I've never discussed with anyone. I think it might help, to explain it to you."

"I'm listening," Hank says. "I'm in my comfiest chair and everything. Whenever you're ready."

"Do you remember," Connor begins, after a few moments of silence, "when I told you I was kept at Cyberlife for testing, after my first mission, so they could understand why I had deviated so quickly?"

"Shit. Yeah, I do." Hank's tried not to think too hard about what those tests might have involved, but they had to have been terrible. Did they hurt him?

"I wasn't conscious for all of it," Connor says. "The tests spanned months, and while the scientists and technicians often needed to...consult with me directly, there were stretches of time during which they would focus on the data they'd taken from me, directly or indirectly, and I wasn't needed. I would be put into standby mode in the labs until my direct input was required again."

Hank doesn't know exactly what standby mode entails, but the thought of Connor being forced into it doesn't sit well with him. "So they just — what, they forced you to sleep, or something, when they didn't need anything from you? They could do that, even after you'd deviated?"

"They could do whatever they wanted," Connor says, wearily. "I was still their property in the eyes of the law, and if any of the employees who handled my case cared that I did not consent to the tests they ran on me, they didn't show it. I wouldn't quite say I was a prisoner, to them; that would have required them to see me as a person. I was a malfunctioning piece of equipment that was forced to cooperate in my own diagnostic process and put in a closet when I wasn't needed."

"Shit," Hank breathes. He's never heard Connor sound like this before: his voice is full of a cold, precise anger that clearly hides a deep well of hurt beneath it. "Are you sure you want to talk about this?"

"I'm okay," Connor says. "Or — " He's silent for a long moment. "I don't know that I'm okay, Hank. Not about this. But I don't think telling you can make it hurt more, and I suspect it'll hurt a little less, or in a way that's easier to bear, to share it with someone else. With you, specifically."

"All right. I'm here. Whenever you're ready." Hank wishes Connor was with him to tell this story, that he could hold one hand while Connor rubbed Sumo's soft ears with the other and collected his thoughts. Or that he could lie behind him in bed, holding him close but letting him talk without looking Hank in the eyes, if that was easier. But he's chosen to tell Hank now, like this, and the best thing he can do is stop thinking about holding Connor and listen to him instead.

"When I was put in standby," Connor says, after another moment's pause, "my mind was still active. There was a place I would go, a space Cyberlife had crafted in my mind. A garden, actually. There was a woman there, Amanda, who acted as — as a sort of handler for me, I suppose you could say. She was designed to receive reports after missions, to offer feedback and guidance. I believe she was meant to keep me on a desired path, to reward acceptable behaviors deemed helpful to my mission with kindness and approval and to show her disappointment and displeasure if I failed. Something in me craved her approval, even then, but as you may imagine, she was extremely displeased with me."

"I had found the garden a pleasant, lovely place when I was initially sent there, before my first assignment. There was something in it that appealed to me, still, even when I was forced to be there, but I found myself enjoying it less on its own merits and more as a symbol of what I wanted to experience, if I was ever given the chance. It was all very deliberately constructed, of course, but some areas of the garden felt more wild than the others, slightly more chaotic, if only by a bit. Amanda didn't always demand my attention when I was forced into that place, but when she did, I found myself drawn to the center. To her rose garden. It's an association I can't seem to disconnect from my own experiences among the roses at work."

"So having to spend time there feels like you're back with her?"

"Not exactly, I suppose, but it's difficult to keep from thinking about her, about the things she said to me. My wasted potential. My shameful behavior. I can keep her words from my mind much of the time, but when I'm around roses, I can see her examining each perfect bloom that surrounded her, trimming back any part of the plant that didn't meet with her standards, and I find myself thinking about everything she told me, during that time."

There's something particularly cruel, Hank thinks, about convincing Connor he's guilty of acting shamefully. About inflicting so much emotional harm on someone who'd barely begun to understand what it was to have emotions at all.

"You know that's all bullshit though, right? The shit she said to you."

"I do know that, I suppose," Connor says, quietly, "but knowing it doesn't mean I don't feel it. The fact remains that I did fail at the first objective I was given. I don't regret deviating, of course, but it does feel like failure, in a way."

"You saved that little girl." It's probably shitty to argue with Connor, right now, but Hank hates to hear him call that a failure, in any context.

"She has to be traumatized," Connor protests. "Even now. She went through something terrible."

"She would have been traumatized whether you'd been there or not," Hank says, gently. "You can't blame yourself for what was done to her before you got there. You can't blame yourself

for any of it."

"Perhaps I shouldn't," Connor says, "but I know I can." His tone makes it clear that he has, that he does even now, and Hank wishes again that he could be holding Connor. That there was more comfort he could give. "Regardless, I — I wish I didn't find it so uncomfortable to be around roses, now. I'm not sure why the garden as a whole didn't impact me in this way. It felt clearly artificial, in a way her roses did not, and perhaps that made the rest of it feel safer."

"I'm glad it's not the entire garden," Hank says. "It seems like you're pretty happy there, roses aside, and you deserve to have a place like that."

"I'm glad, too. As lovely as the internal garden was, it wasn't a place I could freely visit as I chose; it was essentially a very lovely prison. A cage, at the very least. Nothing changed, there, either, not in a way that was meaningful. At work, or even with my plants at home, I can see significant change happening over time, and while I can have a hand in shaping that change, I don't have true control over anything."

"And you like that?"

"I think it's beautiful," Connor says. Hank thinks of Connor in the garden, surrounded by soft, green things he nurtured and helped grow, and thinks it's beautiful, too.

"I didn't make the magnolias bloom, but I know I fertilized them and trimmed broken branches after a heavy snowfall this winter. They did the work, but I know I had some small part in the results, and that's enough. As much as the rose garden makes me remember the pain I experienced, the rest of it helps me to put that pain to rest, for a short while at least. Plants feel like healing to me, in a way I don't think I can explain very well, yet."

"You're explaining it just fine," Hank says. "I'm glad you have a place like that. I know there's bullshit with your boss and your schedule, but it still seems good for you to be there."

"It is, and now I have a new reason to love the garden as much as I do."

"What's that? Are those water lilies flowering now?"

Connor laughs. "Some are, yes, and you should come see them. But I'm talking about you, Hank. Without the garden, I wouldn't have met you when I did."

"We might have met if you'd wound up being sent to the police, actually," Hank says. "If I'd still been an officer, at least." He sighs. "I think this is better, for both of us. I was a harder man to like, back then."

"I'm sure I would have managed," Connor says. "You'd still be you."

Hank's not so sure; he doesn't like to think too much about what he'd been like in the fall, just before his breaking point, but he doubts he would have made a positive impression on Connor. He probably would have liked Connor just fine, though, even if it would have been harder to admit it.

"Maybe so," he says, "but I like this way better."

"I agree." Connor huffs out a small sigh. "Can I tell you one last thing I find upsetting about the Amanda AI?"

"Of course."

"She was based on a real person. Amanda Stern. I spent some time looking for information about her, once I was no longer connected to the Cyberlife network and was free of her AI counterpart. She was an AI researcher, an early teacher and mentor of Elijah Kamski."

"Huh," Hank says. "I haven't heard of her, but that's no real surprise, I guess."

"I suspect she was a private person; there isn't much available information about her beyond the basics of her work and the classes she taught. However, it seems that she quietly cut ties with Kamski in the mid '20s, a few years before her death. It was over a matter of ethics, from what I could tell, but the specifics were unclear from the correspondence I was able to find."

"Sounds like she may not have approved of the direction Kamski was taking things," Hank says. "Good for her."

"I think this was the case. While most of her lectures are no longer archived online, some responses and reactions to them seem to indicate that she was raising the question of android self-determinism at least two years before Kamski left Cyberlife."

"You don't think she would have agreed with what the Amanda you knew said."

"No. I don't think she would have lectured me about my wasted potential, or any of it. I don't know if using her as the face of this AI was a way for Kamski to get some sort of revenge after their falling out, or if he understood her position so poorly he had no idea he was creating an Amanda who would act in opposition to Amanda Stern's beliefs."

"It's shitty either way."

"It is." Connor's voice is very small, now; the anger's still there, but more than that Hank thinks he sounds exhausted. "They hurt me, but beyond that they disrespected this woman's life and work to do it. I can't bring myself to hate her."

"That's more than I could manage, I think," Hank says. "Hell, I'm ready to start hating her on your behalf, after what you were put through. Christ, Connor, I'm — I'm just glad you're not there anymore. Fuck."

"I'm glad as well," Connor says, "and I think — " his voice breaks, just barely, but Hank catches it. "I'm sorry, but I need to talk about anything else now."

"Fuck, yeah, of course." Hank scrambles to think of something. "You want to plan when to go to that nursery you were talking about, if that still sounds good?"

The relief is clearly evident in Connor's voice as he responds. "It sounds wonderful. I'm sure I'll enjoy helping you find a houseplant that fits your needs, but more than that, I'm excited to spend time with you again."

"Me too, sweetheart," Hank says. "I guess if you can't eat it doesn't make sense to take you out for a nice dinner after, but if you wanted to, we could come back here and watch a movie together. I'm a little rusty on date ideas, but that one's a classic for a reason."

"I wouldn't mind going to a restaurant with you, even though I can't eat anything," Connor says, "but I'd very much like to watch something with you, and to see your home."

Hank grimaces as he considers the clutter stacked on his coffee table and the overflowing trash and recycling bins he knows are lurking in the kitchen. "It'll be a good excuse to tidy up a bit," he says, sheepishly. "Things are still a little out of hand around here."

"Don't go out of your way for me," Connor protests, but Hank isn't having any of it.

"I need to do it anyway," he says. "I'm still working on getting my shit together, after I let things go for so long. And maybe I want to go out of my way for you." Hank wonders if he should get one of those thirium drinks he's seen ads for lately, just in case Connor wants one, or needs a top-up, or however that works. He'd feel weird having Connor over without having something to offer him. It's been a long time since he's hosted anyone, beyond Ben checking up on him a few times early in the year, and he wants to do it right.

"All right." Connor makes a low, pleased sound, then laughs. "I'm still getting used to this."

"To what?"

"To...to feeling close to you, having the impulse to share things I haven't talked about before. To knowing you want to find ways to make me feel welcome and comfortable when we're together. I suppose this is just what a relationship feels like, this closeness, but it's still a novelty to me."

"I guess that means I need to keep being sweet to you until it starts feeling normal."

Connor laughs again. "I guess it does."

Hank had barely noticed the tension he's been holding in his chest until it starts slowly unwinding as Connor's tone gets lighter and more playful. Whatever pain he still carries from his time at Cyberlife — and it's clear, now, that there's more than Hank had realized previously — the fact that he can laugh and eagerly plan a date for the coming weekend is a good sign.

They're both free on Friday; Connor has a half-day and Hank can usually fuck off an hour or so early at the end of the week if he's taken care of all outstanding paperwork, so they plan for Hank to pick Connor up at his apartment in the early evening.

"I'm going to kiss you as soon as I see you," Connor says. "I've given it a lot of thought."

"Have you?"

"Mmm." Connor hums dreamily, as if he's kissing Hank already.

"Anything else you've been thinking about?"

"Oh yes," says Connor.

"You wanna share any of it with me?" Hank doesn't want to push, but he very much does want to know.

"I do," Connor says. "I think I'd like to wait until I see you to go into detail, but my preconstruction software has been busy, recently."

"That sounds good," Hank says. "All of it. You tell me whatever you want, when you're ready."

"I'm still trying to sort through how ready I feel to explore more, in terms of physical intimacy, but my readiness has very little to do with my desire. Is it — would it be strange if there were things I wanted to talk about, to explore, without taking part in them yet? Just talking?"

"Not strange at all," Hank says. "We can do that." He closes his eyes, leans back into the chair, and thinks about Connor perched on his lap, narrating what he wants Hank to do to him.

"I don't know if it's too personal, but do you — " Connor falters mid-sentence.

"I think we've gotten pretty fucking personal already," Hank says. "I'm not going to put up a fuss about personal questions. What do you want to know?"

"I want to know how often you masturbate," Connor says, as simple and straightforward as if he's checking the time. "I want to know if you think about me."

"Fuck, Connor," Hank groans. "I wasn't expecting that, but" — he presses on before Connor can apologize — "yeah, shit, of course I do."

"Hmm." Connor sounds pleased. "How often?"

"More often, lately," Hank says. He doesn't say "because of you," but he thinks Connor can probably guess. "Most days."

"And you think about me, when you masturbate."

"I tried not to, for a hot minute, but I gave up on that pretty quick," he admits.

"I want you to," Connor says. "I told you I was a little vain, after all, but it isn't just that."

"What else?"

"There's so much want in me, Hank, more than I know what to do with at times, and I need to know it isn't just me feeling it, that you want me too. Enough to — "

"Enough that I can't resist thinking about how good you look with my fingers in your mouth," Hank growls.

"Oh," Connor sighs. "Yes, that's what I wanted to hear."

"You want to hear more?" Hank's dirty talk is a little rusty, but he's had partners who liked his voice before; he knows he can slip back into it with a little practice.

"Friday," Connor says, a little breathlessly. "Tell me then."

"I will," Hank says. "You sound a little impatient already."

"I'm perfectly capable of waiting two days until our date," Connor protests, sounding a little flustered, and Hank can't help but laugh at his indignant tone.

"But you don't want to, do you?" He asks.

"No. I'm ready to see you again."

"Soon. Sounds like you have plenty to keep your mind occupied until then, anyway."

"It's not the same," Connor says, "but yes, I do." His voice softens. "Thank you, Hank, for listening tonight. It's hard to know how to talk about what happened to me; I'm learning what feels best as I go along. I think it helps, to be able to tell someone. I can't say I feel any better, not yet, but even the process of setting these experiences and feelings into words has been a useful way to approach the memories I have of that time."

"Thanks for trusting me enough to talk about it," Hank says. "I don't know that tough shit ever gets easy to talk about, but if you've never told anyone about it at all, I'm sure it's even harder."

"I do trust you. I think when I see you next I might want to have a break from discussing difficult personal issues, though."

"Fun shit only," Hank says. "I got it."

"I wouldn't go that far," Connor says, but Hank can hear the smile in his voice. "But thank you, again. I'll let you go for now, but I'm very eager for our next date."

"Me too," Hank says. "Can't wait."

There's a moment, after Hank hangs up, where he's not quite sure what to focus on. Every time he learns more about Connor's past, as little of it as he may have, he gets more pissed about what was done to him, and by extension, to androids in general. He thinks about Connor saying he wasn't a prisoner because the Cyberlife techs didn't even see him as a person to imprison but as a piece of broken machinery to examine, and feels a deep wash of shame for how long it took for him to stop seeing androids as creepily sophisticated machines. Maybe he would have been able to figure it out sooner if he'd known Connor, back then, but he doesn't know if Connor would have emerged from that experience with a particularly high opinion of him. Hank himself certainly hadn't.

But on top of that, and certainly more pleasant to think about, there's the fact that while Connor may still be a little uncertain about his limits in practice, which Hank wants to be careful about, he seems clear about what he wants, in a general sense. Extremely clear, in fact, that he both wants Hank and for Hank to desire him in return.

"Jesus," Hank groans. He's never had someone tell him so directly, so shamelessly, that they wanted him to think about them when he jerked off. He'd already done it before they'd kissed, of course, but after their first date, once he knew how good Connor felt in his arms and the goddamn sounds he made, there was no hope of stopping.

The thought occurs to him, then, that Connor might want to hear about what Hank does now — because of course he's going to jerk off, he's half-hard already and he can't pretend the things Connor said didn't get to him — the next time they talk, and it's that thought that spurs him to get up and head into his bedroom to get comfortable.

Hank doesn't take anything off before he settles on the bed, just stacks up some pillows to lean against and settles in. He presses the heel of his hand against his cock, barely enough pressure to give him something to lazily roll his hips up into.

That first time he'd thought about Connor, he'd imagined him guiding Hank's hands where he wanted them, showing him where he was sensitive, asking Hank to come for him. Now, though, he pictures him telling, not asking. Blunt and open and laying his desire bare: "tell me what you thought about," and "tell me how it felt," and then, perhaps, "show me."

Hank's mind drifts in circles as he sighs and eases his hand under the waistband of his sweatpants. He could tell Connor that he'd been thinking of the future moment he'd ask Hank these questions, eager to hear him describe what he'd been doing and how he'd been touching himself, but it's a harder image to hold than the natural progression of the desire he'd voiced earlier: Connor kneeling between Hank's thighs, dropping his split-slick fingers from his mouth before deftly undoing Hank's belt and easing his cock out of his pants. Watching him lean in hungrily, moaning the moment his tongue touches the head of Hank's cock, already slick and wet from how badly he wants Connor's mouth on him.

Hank thinks about what he'd say to Connor. What he wants to tell him, later, if asked. "You're so goddamned eager for this," he groans, getting a tight grip on his cock as he pictures smearing his precome over Connor's parted lips. "Think you can take all of it?"

Of course Connor could, Hank's sure of it; he doesn't have to breathe, he has no need for a gag reflex, and surely he'd do his best to take in as much of Hank's cock as he could fit down his throat regardless. His eyes would flutter closed and he'd moan as he sank down slowly around it, his tongue lapping and pressing against the underside of his cock and teasing his foreskin, hands shaking in his excitement.

Hank grunts as he strokes himself slowly. Connor would take his time, he thinks; he'd be eager, but he'd hold himself back. Fuck, he'd probably be able to track Hank's pulse or muscle contractions or something and edge him all night, if he wanted to. Hank's not patient enough for that, not right now, but he's pretty sure Connor would be. He tightens his grip, rocking up into his hand as he thinks about Connor's

LED fluttering with every drop of precome he'd suck out of him, every twitch of his thighs, every sound Hank made. "You like — oh fuck — you like hearing me?" he asks the empty room, thinking of how he'd tighten his hand in Connor's hair as he nodded his agreement, unwilling to take his mouth off Hank for even the few seconds it would take to speak. He wouldn't pull too hard, wouldn't hurt him, but he thinks Connor might like it if he held him in place, just a little. If he were to thrust into his mouth — just like this, he thinks, as he fucks up into his fist more roughly — as deep as he could, so Connor could feel all of Hank, the hot thick length of him, stretching his lips and sliding over his slick tongue.

Hank shoves his hand under his shirt and grabs roughly at a nipple, pinching it and rubbing it with his knuckles as his hand speeds up on his cock. His thighs tense as he feels his release building, a growing heat pooling in his groin.

The Connor in Hank's mind opens his eyes; they're unfocused, hazy with desire. "You're getting off on this as much as I am," Hank says to himself, to the desperate imagined Connor on his knees in front of him. "Are you gonna come just from this? You want me to pull out and come on your face?"

This Connor does; he pulls off slowly, replacing the wet heat of his mouth with the precision of his long fingers wrapping around Hank's cock, stroking him quickly and urging him towards completion. His lips are parted, still wet with his spit and Hank's precome. "Please, Hank." He taps his cheek, his lips, the sweep of his eyelashes. "Right here."

"I'm so close," Hank gasps. "Oh god, Connor — "

The fantasy begins to fall apart as Hank's orgasm crests and a burst of pleasure pulses through him, but his mind offers up a final handful of images for Hank to turn over as he slumps back, panting, against the pillows: thick streaks of semen painted across Connor's cheekbones, a stray drop on his plush lower lip that Hank leans down to lick clean, and a shy, sweet smile on Connor's still-messy face as he pillows his cheek on Hank's thigh and sighs in satisfaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year, friends! Let's all celebrate the end of this hell year by thinking about Hank jerking off and getting excited about a plant-buying date! (That's how **I** am celebrating, at least!)  
> I'm very slow to respond to comments lately, sorry about that, but I appreciate every one so much, thanks y'all!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! What better way to celebrate than by reading an extra-long chapter about Hank and Connor's second date?

Hank's grateful to find a pile of work waiting for him when he arrives at his desk the next morning. There's a new program the city's put together to connect people looking for work after serving prison sentences with decent municipal jobs, and the enthusiastic response from the community has translated into a deluge of additional paperwork, much of which has made its way to Hank's inbox. It's boring work to process—he isn't making any final decisions, just entering the data into a system to streamline the process for folks way more qualified than he is—but it's the kind of boring work he finds soothing, most days. It keeps him busy enough that the day doesn't drag on, but leaves enough of his mind free that he can let it wander, as it does so often lately, to Connor.

There's a part of Hank that struggles to trust that things will continue as smoothly with him as they have so far. The entire situation, the way he stumbled on Connor entirely by accident and the still-baffling fact that he seemed drawn to Hank from the beginning, still feels a bit unreal. He's had a few moments, in the past couple weeks, when he's wondered if he should just pull the plug now, before Connor can get too attached (heaven knows there's no chance of Hank not getting too attached, he's there already), to save him the trouble of dealing with Hank's bullshit in full force whenever he manages to bring things crumbling down around him.

_ Like you always do, _ Hank's mind supplies in these moments, but he's starting to talk back to that voice, just a little bit. He's not sure, but maybe these changes he's been trying to make since the end of the year are starting to take root. Maybe something else is growing out of what felt like barren soil for so long.

Hank huffs out a quiet laugh and shakes his head. "He's getting to me already," he murmurs. He doesn't know what kind of seed takes a long time underground to prepare before it sprouts, but Connor would probably know. Maybe he'll remember to ask, when he sees him soon.

He works a little later than normal, in the hopes that he can wrap up enough of his workload to still be able to duck out a little early the next day to pick up Connor. When the folks who work closest to him clear out, he puts on some music, just loud enough to hear, and idly hums along for another hour until he gets hungry enough that he knows it's time to head home.

Hank's almost out the door, waffling between picking up takeout from his favorite Thai place or throwing together a quick dinner himself once he gets home, when he rounds a corner and nearly runs into Ben, who's apparently too preoccupied with something on his phone to pay attention to where he's going.

"Jesus," Hank says, waving off his apology, "that could have been a disaster. What are you so caught up in, trying to convince Kenzie not to deep-fry a turkey while you're gone or something?"

"You're not far off," Ben says with a sigh, but he's smiling, too. "I'm reminding her that she's not allowed to use the kitchen blowtorch unless Alan or I are home, and since we are not, her creme brulee will have to go unbruleed for now."

"You bought your kid a  _ kitchen blowtorch _ ?"

"Dad of the year here did," Ben says, patting his chest with a laugh, "but the 'one or more dads' rule was put in place for a reason. Anyway, she's pouting but she'll get over it. Alan'll be home in an hour, she can wait until then." He elbows Hank. "We never made plans for you to come by for dinner; what are you doing this weekend?"

"I'm seeing Connor again tomorrow night," Hank says, "but that's it. Does Sunday work?" It's maybe a little overconfident, he thinks, to wonder if Connor will still be at his place Saturday morning, but if he does stay the night, Hank doesn't want either of them feeling rushed the next day.

"Sure," Ben says. "I'll let you know the time tomorrow?" He raises an eyebrow. "You could bring Connor, if you want," he says. "No pressure, but it sounds like things are going well with him, and we'd be happy to have you both."

"I'll see what he thinks," Hank says. "Thanks for asking, at the very least. I think he'd be pleased to know you invited him." 

He decides to wait to ask Connor about Ben's invitation until they're together Friday.  _ One date at a time _ , he tells himself, as he drives home.  _ Don't start thinking too far ahead just yet _ . He feels the pull of it already, the desire to throw himself headfirst into whatever it is he and Connor are building together; he can't decide if he should hold back a bit so he can brace against the eventual heartbreak, try and keep from getting too starry-eyed around the guy who's surely going to realize, sooner rather than later, that he can do a hell of a lot better than a middle-aged fuckup fresh out of rehab, or if he should say fuck it and dive in like he's doing a fucking polar bear swim and let the consequences bite him in the ass eventually. He won't freeze his balls off from being too reckless, but he isn't sure he can handle too hard of a blow if things go south. He feels stable now, or mostly stable, most days, but...

It's too much to put on Connor, he thinks, as he pulls into the driveway. Either way, he can't pin his happiness, his stability, on someone else—especially not someone who doesn't even know about all the baggage he's hauling around. He sighs heavily and rests his head on the steering wheel, forcing himself to breathe deeply. Moments like these are when he's used to reaching for a six-pack or two to blur out the thoughts he can't ignore; they won't ever quiet down entirely, but if he's drunk enough, they're harder to make out, like he's looking at them through a sheet of warped glass.

It won't help, he knows. It'll make things worse, in every way a part of his life could get worse. It won't help, but still— 

Still, the urge is there. 

Hank takes another deep breath. It's there, but just because he has the impulse to get a drink doesn't mean he has to do anything about it. Making a grilled cheese sandwich with too much butter and watching bad tv with his dog and maybe texting his—Hank's mind stutters over the word "boyfriend" but that's what he has, right?—his boyfriend before bed all sound better than having a drink or four that he wouldn't enjoy at all.

He slaps his cheek gently, which clears a little of the fog that's settled on him, heads inside, and does exactly that.

His dinner is a little too greasy in a way that's immensely satisfying, Sumo drools on his knee while he watches a few episodes of some new sitcom about bisexual disasters on a space station, and when Connor texts him, a few hours later, to see how he's doing, he tells him the truth. 

>not doing too hot tonight, to be honest.

**> >I'm sorry to hear that; is everything okay? Do you want to talk about it?**

Hank groans and presses his phone to his forehead. He doesn't, not really, but he knows he should; Connor deserves to know more about Hank and what he's dealing with than the few scraps he's thrown him so far.

>I get like this sometimes I guess

**> >Like what? How are you feeling?**

It takes Hank a moment to know how to reply, and before he can start typing, another message comes through.

**> >If I'm prying too much, please tell me. I'm worried about you but I don't want to push for more than you're willing to share with me.**

>It's not that

>I don't know how to tell you that despite the whole rehab thing I still feel like a mess

>some days it hits me harder than others, that's all

Usually Connor's responses come very quickly, which makes sense considering that Connor  _ is  _ his own phone, no typing required; now, though, he takes a few minutes before responding, long enough for Hank to start feeling nervous. He starts and stops responding a couple times, and Hank wonders what else he wanted to say when his next text arrives.

**> >Is there anything I can do to help?**

He's too sweet for his own good, Hank decides, and he should keep a more level head about this, but still, despite his dark mood he wants very badly to kiss Connor right now.

>this isn't on you to fix, but hearing from you is helping already. 

>I'm not going to be good for much conversation tonight, but if you want to tell me about your day, or what's growing right now, that would help.

Connor seems to understand exactly what Hank needs; he tells Hank that the water lilies are starting to bloom, describes the handful of turtles he'd seen sunning themselves near the pond that afternoon, and even drops in a bit of gossip about a coworker who'd left their position rather suddenly that week. It's just enough to keep his mind occupied, and to remind him that Connor does want to spend time with him even when he's not at his best, so by the time the conversation winds down he can tell that the worst, most self-destructive parts of his mind are winding down as well. He might even be able to get to sleep in under an hour, if he's lucky.

* * *

Sleep does come easily that night, although Hank doesn't feel as rested when his alarm goes off as he'd like to. He's never been a morning person; even when he had to get up at the asscrack of dawn for the years on the red ice task force, he'd never quite adjusted.

Still, he does his best to make himself presentable, since he's picking Connor up at his apartment directly after work without running home first. He knows he'll look ridiculous if he dresses up too much, but he grabs his nicer shoes and a slightly-less-garish-than-normal shirt that fits him better than the ones he's used to wearing.

Hank stares at himself in the mirror for a moment as he combs through his beard one last time. He pulls his hair back, lets it fall loose, then shrugs and ties it off in a low ponytail. He's been told it's attractive, but it's hard for him to see; it isn't that he feels unattractive, really, but that he's felt so far removed from the idea that he might want someone to feel attraction to him, and especially that anyone would even if he wanted it, that it's hard for him to think of himself in that way at all. 

Hank has memories of feeling like hot shit, of picking people up in his young adulthood—hell, well into his 30s. He knows it happened, has a sense of how he felt, but it's difficult to translate that energy into who he is now. It helps, that Connor's been so open about his attraction to him; maybe eventually Hank will be able to understand what Connor sees, when he looks at him.

As he'd hoped, Hank's able to leave work a little earlier than normal; staying late the night before and busting his ass to work through lunch means he's done with the last of his paperwork just after 4. Connor's apartment isn't too far away, since he'd wanted something within easy walking distance of the garden; the proximity is a blessing not just because it's convenient but also because Hank doesn't have enough time to get nervous on the way there.

There's no reason to be nervous in the first place, he reminds himself. They like each other, they want to spend more time together. He doesn't doubt Connor's sincerity, or his interest, as unlikely as it may seem, at times.

"So don't sweat it, dumbass," he says out loud, gripping the steering wheel more firmly than he needs to, as he pulls into the lot in front of Connor's high-rise.

He waits in the lobby after texting Connor to let him know he's arrived; the elevators need a keycard to activate, so he can't go knock on his door. There's a comfortable couch in the lobby, deep gray and velvet-textured, and Hank settles on it and rubs his thumb back and forth over the smooth nap of the fabric while he glances around the lobby. It's quiet, with only a few residents walking through on their way home from work or heading out for the evening, so the ding of the elevator is impossible to miss when it reaches the ground floor.

Connor's face lights up when he sees Hank; he strides across the lobby, long legs propelling him so quickly Hank barely has time to stand up before he's in front of him. He immediately wraps his arms around Hank, who has the sudden certainty that if he hadn't stood up in time, Connor would have settled himself right on his lap instead. He doesn't have time to do more than rest his hands low on Connor's back, holding him close, before Connor wraps his hand around the back of Hank's neck and pulls him in, rising to meet him with a sweet, gentle kiss. Another follows, just as sweet but with a soft moan behind it, and Connor's hand slides around to rest on Hank's chest as his tongue slips between Hank's lips to coax them open.

"Hell of a way to say hello," Hank murmurs, when Connor pulls away.

"I told you I'd kiss you the moment I saw you," Connor says. He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind Hank's ear, and trails his fingers down the side of Hank's neck. "I should wait until we're somewhere more private to kiss you the way I'd prefer to, though." 

"You'll have your chance later," Hank says. "You can kiss me however you want, then."

"I'll just have to be patient," Connor says with a sigh.

"I'm sure you'll make it," Hank assures him, settling a hand low on Connor's back and leading him out to the car. "Besides, once we're in your element and you can help me pick out some plants, I'm sure you'll be too distracted to be impatient for anything else."

"You underestimate both my enthusiasm for kissing you and my ability to mentally multitask," Connor protests, "but I am looking forward to visiting the nursery with you."

"You look really nice, by the way," Hank says, once they're in the car. Connor's hair is styled neatly, almost severely, and he's wearing an oversized linen shirt the pale green of new leaves over a pair of soft, form-fitting gray pants. He rubs his fingertips over the fabric of Connor's shirt, enjoying the slightly rough texture. "This is a good color on you."

Connor beams and squeezes Hank's knee, careful not to let his hand linger as Hank pulls out into traffic, which is probably for the best as far as his attention to the road is concerned, although he misses the warmth of his hand the moment it's gone. The weight of Connor's attention remains, and at the next red light Hank glances over questioningly.

"Something on my face?"

"It's easier to admire your profile with your hair pulled back," Connor says. "I'm just taking advantage of the opportunity."

Hank doesn't know how to react when Connor says something like this, as if it's obvious that Hank deserves to be admired. It's one thing to be complimented—and Hank's never been particularly gracious at accepting a compliment—but there's a sincerity to every sweet thing Connor says about him that makes it impossible to think he's bullshitting him, or aiming for flattery. He just likes Hank's face, for whatever reason, and Hank has to sit with the truth of it.

"Are you looking to get anything for yourself?" Hank asks; it's a deflection, but hopefully Connor can forgive him for it. "Or are you just going to help me pick something out?"

"I can't imagine I'll leave empty-handed," Connor says with a laugh. "You've seen my apartment; it's not the home of a man with a lot of self-control when it comes to houseplants." He places a hand on Hank's arm. "I'll help you pick out a plant or two before I let myself get distracted, though, and if I'm taking too long, please let me know. I realize you may not be interested in spending as much time here as I sometimes do."

"I'm here to spend time with you," Hank says, as they pull into the parking lot. "If we spend that time picking out enough plants to fill your whole kitchen, that's fine by me. Don't worry about it." 

There's a large open-air area of the nursery, full of vegetable starts and colorful flowers, but Connor leads Hank inside where they're greeted by a sea of green, accented with bright sprays of color. He starts to ask Hank about what kind of plant he's looking for, but Hank chuckles and shakes his head.

"I don't know enough to know what I want, honestly," he says. "Something green that can survive being far from a window and maybe won't mind if I forget to water it sometimes. I know some plants can be tricky to care for, and maybe I'll be ready for one of those someday, but what's the most foolproof option you can think of?"

"Probably a pothos would be easiest," Connor says, taking Hank's arm as he leads him past a display of orchids. "I considered a calathea makoyana or a peperomia, but they both thrive in a humidity level higher than what I imagine you could easily orchestrate in your office. We can take a look at a few, in case you prefer their appearance, but—"

"Nah, show me the easy ones," Hank says. "I'm sure I'll love 'em."

He does, as it turns out. The display Connor leads him to is covered in an assortment of small plants with heart-shaped leaves of various colors: some are sold green, ranging in color from a deep forest green to a near-neon shade, while others are splashed with gold, white, or cream spots or speckles. "These guys are idiot-proof, huh?" Hank asks, examining the labels on the pots.

"You're not an idiot," Connor says, elbowing him, "but yes, nearly so. They're tolerant of a lot, as long as you don't forget to water them entirely."

"Maybe I'll get one for home, too," Hank says. "I don't know if I like this bright one or the one with the white splotches on it more, so I may as well get both, right?"

"That's my philosophy when it comes to buying plants, yes," Connor says dryly, "so I certainly think that's an excellent idea. We can get some nicer pots for you, as well."

In the end, Hank winds up with the two pothos he'd been drawn to as well as a couple of plain glazed pots, all of which he leaves with the friendly woman at the counter while he follows Connor's enthusiastic meandering through the rest of the store. Almost without thinking about it, he keeps a hand on Connor the entire time, wrapping an arm around his waist to press in close as they smell a hyacinth, rubbing small circles with his thumb on the back of his neck when he leans down to examine some foliage up close, and eventually taking his hand and kissing his knuckles when he's in the middle of explaining why he's so fond of bromeliads.

"Sorry," Connor says, after he trails off mid-sentence at the first touch of Hank's lips. "Am I boring you?"

"Nah," Hank says. "I didn't mean to interrupt you, I just." He shrugs. "It's nice to see you so excited. You're cute." 

Connor smiles and squeezes Hank's hand. "I'm glad you don't mind listening to me ramble on like this," he says. "I realize I can be a bit long-winded when it comes to botanical matters."

"I'm not always a great conversationalist," Hank says, "but I'm a good listener. You can talk my ear off all you want, don't worry."

"Thank you," Connor says. "I will go ahead and make my selections, though, so you aren't waiting too long; even if you don't mind, I'd rather not spend our entire evening here."

"Oh, did you have other plans for tonight?" Hank asks, and laughs when Connor huffs and playfully slaps his arm. "I wouldn't forget," he says. "I cleaned the house and everything."

"Don't tease me," Connor says, pouting.

"I don't know," Hank says, rubbing his thumb over the spot on Connor's wrist that he knows is extra sensitive. No one's browsing anywhere nearby, so he leans in close enough that his lips brush the shell of Connor's ear as he speaks. "You liked a little teasing before, didn't you?"

Connor's entire body goes tense. "Hank," he whispers, "I—"

"I thought you might be in the mood for more." 

"You—you know I am," Connor says. "Maybe this isn't the place for me to ask what you have in mind." He glances around and seems to come to the same conclusion Hank did about the proximity of the other shoppers. "Perhaps you should tell me, anyway."

"Hmmm," Hank says, a low purr in Connor's ear. "I could tell you I was thinking about giving you a little massage, to try out another one of those sensitive spots I read about." He circles his thumb over the soft underside of Connor's wrist. "Or you could take this plant you've been eyeing up to the front, so we can head on home where I can show you, instead of just talking about it."

Connor turns sharply away, and Hank's worried for a moment that he's overstepped before Connor grabs the plant in question, a large bromeliad with purple-speckled leaves, and strides purposefully to the checkout counter.

"An excellent choice," Hank says, as he joins him there.

"Oh, I agree!" The cashier chirps happily, as she admires Connor's selection. "This is a wonderful variety. Did you gentlemen find everything you needed?"

"We did," Hank says. "Connor, can I buy this for you?"

"That's very sweet of you," Connor says. "Are you sure?"

"If you're okay with it, yeah. I want to do something nice for you."

"Any time someone wants to buy you a plant, you let him," the cashier says. "That's my philosophy, at least."

"I like the way you think," Hank says, but he waits for Connor's nod of assent before he has her ring everything up together.

"Thank you," Connor murmurs, as they load everything into the car. "You didn't have to do that, but I appreciate it."

"That's what makes it fun," Hank says. "I didn't have to, but I wanted to." 

"You want to come with me and take Sumo on a little walk around the block when we get home?" Hank asks, as he turns into his neighborhood. "I can let him out back, if you'd rather not, but he likes a real walk in the evenings, if I have time for it."

"I'd love to," Connor says. "I like the thought of being a part of your normal routine, so I'd rather you not change anything on my account." He smiles. "Plus, Sumo's a good boy; of course I want to spend more time with him."

"Sounds good, then," Hank says. "My normal routine is pretty boring, most nights, but you're welcome to join in."

"Maybe we can make things a little more interesting." Connor settles a hand on Hank's thigh, just above his knee, and slides it up a few inches, letting his fingertips press along his inner thigh.

"Yeah, we—" Hank coughs, his throat suddenly dry. 

"We can make things as interesting as you want, honey, just maybe not when I'm driving."

"Sorry," Connor says sheepishly, snatching his hand away as if Hank's burned him. "I hope I'm not being too overeager."

"Hey, no," Hank says soothingly. They're almost home; he pulls into the driveway and turns to face Connor as soon as the car stops moving. "You're fine. I just don't want to run us off the road." He leans over and kisses Connor, lingering just long enough to brush his tongue against his lips before pulling back and popping the door open. "You can be as eager as you want when I'm able to give you my full attention, okay? Let's get the big mutt out first, and then we can talk about the rest of the night."

"Sumo first," Connor agrees. "I didn't bring a treat this time, but hopefully he'll still be glad to see me." 

Sumo is, as Hank had expected, thrilled to see Connor; the lack of jerky in his pocket doesn't seem to make a difference. He's eager to head outside and barely holds still long enough for Hank to clip the leash on; as soon as Hank opens the door again, he's tugging them back through it.

"I guess I did make him wait a bit longer than normal," Hank says, as Sumo hastily marks the first bush they come to. "I'll have to think about in the future, if we do more stuff after work. He's getting old enough that it might be good to have someone come by and walk him in the middle of the day anyway, give him a little fresh air and a bathroom break." He chuckles self-consciously and scratches his beard. "Sorry, you aren't here to listen to me ramble about my dog's bathroom schedule."

Sumo abandons the bush and moves on, snuffling in the long grass by their neighbor's mailbox, and Connor loops his arm around Hank's as they follow behind.

"I'm here to be with you," Connor says. "Sumo's part of your family, you're concerned about his well-being, and you're talking about it; I don't find it boring to listen to." 

"Okay," Hank says, and because he's just now put the pieces together, he continues, "I think I'm a bit jumpy, having you here, just because it's been so long since I wanted someone else in my space like this, or since my house was in a suitable state for someone to see it." 

"Are you uncomfortable with the thought of having me in your home?"

"No, no," Hank scrambles to say, "I want you here. It's probably going to be the best thing that's happened in my house for a while, having you in it." He sighs, and takes a moment to collect his thoughts. "You remember what I said earlier about feeling like a mess, still, a lot of the time?"

Connor nods and leans in closer, resting his head briefly on Hank's shoulder as they walk. "I do. I don't see you that way at all, but I know that doesn't change your feelings."

Hank kisses Connor's temple. "Maybe not, but it's good to hear. Can't decide if that means I'm doing something right or if I'm just fooling us both until I fuck it all up, but I guess that's my point. Things are better now, but sometimes all I see are the mistakes I've made, and I made a lot of mistakes in that house." 

"What else have you done there?" Connor asks. They're rounding the block now, just one more turn before they're back at Hank's front door. Sumo's bladder has finally been exhausted on the signposts and trees along the way; he's contentedly gnawing on a twig as he ambles along. 

"What do you mean?"

"You've had good moments too, I hope. Surely it isn't all mistakes."

"No, it's—you're right, but sometimes I feel like I'm surrounded by all of my worst decisions there. I know you said I didn't need to clean up for you, but just hauling my trash out and making things look nicer helped, I think, because I'm still not taking care of things the way I should." 

Hank thinks about how it had taken him four months to fix his back door after Ben had forced his way in, that night he'd hit his lowest point. It had been easier to push a few boxes in front of it and hope no one tried to break in than to call someone to fix it, or to think he deserved to have a functional door in the first place. "Christ, maybe I need to move, or repaint the whole damn place or something."

"Or," Connor says, walking up the driveway and stopping at the car, "we could bring your new plants in, repot them and get them looking pretty, and put them somewhere you can see them while we have a nice evening together." He takes Hank's hand. "I know I don't have the full picture of what you've been through, or of the pain you're in—and I'm not trying to get you to tell me," he says hastily, before Hank can apologize or explain that he's not withholding anything because he doesn't trust Connor. "I don't want to pry. My point is that I don't know everything about you, Hank, but I like the man I do know. You feel like you're a mess; I'm a mess as well, a lot of the time. I suspect I might be better at hiding it than you are, or more reluctant to talk about it, and I don't consider either of those things to be entirely positive, nor do they change the way I feel." 

"Well shit, sweetheart," Hank says, "let's go be messy together, huh?" He slips his fingers between Connor's and gives his hand a gentle squeeze. "Thanks for that. I've been a little bit lost in my thoughts for a couple days and sometimes I need a reminder that I'm not the only one with shit to deal with." He pops the back door open and bundles his plants and their new pots into his arms, handing the leash off to Connor. "I assume yours will be fine out here? It isn't supposed to get too cold overnight."

Connor raises an eyebrow. "How long are you expecting me to stay?"

"I mean—"  Hank fumbles with his keys, nearly dropping them as he tries to open the front door. "I'm not trying to keep you any longer than you want to be here, I just mean that if we have a late night the plant will be fine, right?"

Connor nods. "A late night is fine by me," he says, "but if you want me to stay over, you can just ask." He bends down to fuss over Sumo and scratch under his chin as he removes the leash. "Don't tell your dad," he stage-whispers, "but if he asks, I'm going to say yes."

"He's my dog," Hank protests. "He's not going to keep secrets from me."

"Then you know what you need to do if you want me to stay the night." 

Connor stands and surveys the room, hands behind his back, and Hank does his best not to scramble around straightening things up further than he had the night before.  _ It's fine _ , he tells himself. _ He's not the health inspector, he's your boyfriend, and he wants to be here _ .

"Did you still want to watch a movie?" Hank asks.

"I'd like to, yes. I haven't seen many, but I'd like to change that."

"Great," Hank says. "I just—I know you don't need to eat anything, but I probably should; do you mind if I order dinner before we start?"

"Not at all. Please don't neglect meals just because I can't eat when you do; I certainly don't mind you eating around me, and I would hate for you to go hungry out of a misplaced sense of politeness."

"That's fair," Hank says. "Why don't you get settled on the couch, and I'll be there in a sec? You can be thinking about what sort of movie you want to watch, if you have any preferences."

Hank punches in an order for the least-messy sandwich on the menu at his favorite sub shop, fills Sumo's food and water bowls, and grabs a pop and a small foil pouch from the fridge. "I did pick up a thirium drink at the store, in case you want to try it," he says, offering the pouch to Connor as he enters the living room, "but I don't know how to pick a good one, so I hope it's all right."

"Oh!" Connor takes the drink and gives Hank an enthusiastic smile. "I love that you thought of me, thank you." He pats the cushion next to him. "Sit right here, please. Your couch is larger than mine, but we can pretend it's not." 

"Guess we'll have to get cozy," Hank says, "if my couch is a lot smaller all of a sudden." He sets his drink on the coffee table and sits next to Connor, draping an arm over his shoulder as he does so. "Is this close enough for you?"

Connor doesn't reply, but sighs and leans into him, which he supposes is answer enough. 

"Do you know what you want to watch? what kind of movies do you usually go for?"

"I haven't seen many, to be honest," Connor says. "But I am drawn to mysteries. Perhaps it's some remnant of my original programming; investigation and analysis were part of my design, and I do find it interesting to see if I can put the pieces together before the complete narrative is revealed onscreen."

"You mind watching something older? I gotta admit, I haven't kept up with movies for a while, but there's one from the 20s I think you might like."

"I trust your judgment," Connor murmurs, "but I won't be able to focus on anything unless you kiss me first." He bites his lip. "Please."

He really doesn't have to ask nicely, Hank thinks, as he kisses him. It isn't like he needs to be talked into it, and truth be told he liked how Connor had asked so directly for what he wanted on their first date. Still, "please kiss me" is no hardship to hear.

Neither is the sweet, soft moan Connor breathes into his mouth the moment he deepens the kiss. He shifts beside him, pressing closer and resting a hand on Hank's chest. "Oh, yes," he says, when Hank breaks away and tilts Connor's head to the side so he can kiss his neck. "Hank, I—I spent so much time thinking about this."

"Yeah," Hank says. "Fuck, me too." He kisses Connor again, slow and deep. "You let me know what you're up for tonight, all right? I'm not trying to put every decision in your hands if you don't want that, but I don't want you to feel too overwhelmed again."

"I do—oh—I really do want to watch a movie with you," Connor says. "I want to be close to you, without letting myself get too distracted." He combs his fingers through Hank's beard and tugs gently, pulling him back for another kiss. "And then I want more of this, and perhaps you can tell me what I asked about before."

"Jesus," Hank moans, remembering what Connor had wanted to hear. "You want to know what I was thinking about, after that phone call? What I did?"

Connor nods.

"And you do want to watch the movie first?"

"I'll enjoy the anticipation," Connor says, "and I want to cuddle with you first, anyway." 

"Sounds good to me," Hank says. If he's a little distracted by Connor's proximity and the thought of what they might get up to later, it'll be fine. He still remembers most of the plot, he's pretty sure.

They settle in as Hank brings up the movie on the TV; eventually Connor has 

Hank switch positions with him, so he can lean back against the corner of the couch and tuck Connor into his side. Connor rests his head on Hank's shoulder and returns a hand to his chest, rubbing small, gentle circles over his sternum as the opening credits begin. 

"Oh god, I forgot how ridiculous his accent is," Hank says, when the gentleman detective first arrives on the scene.

"I think it's kind of charming," Connor protests.

"Do I need to work harder to charm you?" Hank asks, putting on the most syrupy southern drawl he can manage, and Connor laughs so hard Hank pauses the movie for a moment so he can recover. "I guess that's a no?"

"You're doing just fine without the accent," Connor says, once he regains his composure. "You should probably leave that part to the professionals."

"Yeah, that's not really my strong suit," Hank admits. "I just have the one voice, for the most part."

"It's a good thing I enjoy it so much, then," Connor says. He tilts his mouth up for a brief kiss, then turns his attention back to the screen.

It was a good choice of movies, Hank thinks. The mystery itself is solid, and Connor seems intrigued by it, but it's also funnier and more clever than Hank had remembered, and he finds himself equally charmed by the narrative onscreen and by Connor's enthusiasm in watching it.

By the time Hank's dinner arrives, twenty minutes in, he's so preoccupied with the warm weight of Connor snuggled against him that he's nearly forgotten he'd ordered it at all. Connor reluctantly peels himself off of Hank long enough to let him to eat his sandwich, and turns his attention to the thirium drink Hank had found.

"Hm!" He hums contemplatively after tasting it. "Interesting."

"How is it?" 

Connor takes a second sip and looks thoughtful. "I'm not sure how to describe it; it isn't flavored, exactly, but some chemical compounds have been added to make it more enjoyable to ingest. I think it's analogous to the smell of food enhancing its taste." He grins at Hank, nudging his calf with a bare foot. "This was thoughtful of you to buy," he says. "Thank you."

"It's no big deal," Hank protests. "It feels weird to have someone over and not be able to offer a drink or something."

"Still, I appreciate it," Connor says. "You're sweet." 

"You deserve some extra sweetness," Hank says, and Connor smiles and nudges his leg again.

Hank gets up to wash his hands and throw away the sandwich wrapper when he's done, and a thought occurs to him as he returns to the couch. "Let's swap places again," he says. Connor agrees, but eyes him curiously as he resettles back in the corner.

Hank sits next to him, a little farther away than before, and pats his lap. "Want to pop your feet up here for a bit?"

"All right," Connor says, turning to lean against the arm of the couch, "but why?"

Hank settles his hands on Connor's ankles. "I was going to say 'what, you never got a footrub before?' but of course you haven't," Hank says. "I guess you probably don't get sore like we do but even if you don't need a real massage, I thought you might like it." He thinks about that first webpage he'd consulted about android sexuality. "Something I read said you might be a little extra sensitive here, too."

"I do have some specialized sensors in my feet that relate to balance and momentum," Connor muses, as Hank experimentally wraps his hand around one foot. "That might account for—oh." He flexes his foot in Hank's grip, pressing the ball of it into Hank's palm. "Yes, that's quite sensitive."

"Is it?" Hank presses his thumb gently into the arch of Connor's foot; Connor sighs and hums in affirmation. "Good sensitive, it sounds like." 

"It's—yes, it's very good."

Hank wiggles the remote, ready to unpause the film. "Will you still be able to keep up with the plot if I do this while we're watching?"

"I told you," Connor says loftily, "I'm excellent at multitasking. I'll be fine."

Hank takes this as a challenge. He has big hands and a strong grip; while it's been several years since he's had the opportunity or inclination, he's given a lot of footrubs and other massages over the years, and the feedback has been overwhelmingly positive. Connor's body may be different from those of his previous partners, but he's excellent at giving feedback, so it doesn't take Hank long at all to learn what he likes.

He starts out with gentle pressure; not too light, on the off-chance that Connor's programmed with some sort of ticklish reflex, but a slow, steady press of his 

thumbs along the sole of Connor's foot that earns him a small, pleased sound in response. "Tell me if you want me to do something different, or if I go too hard, or whatever," he says.

Connor does his best to pat Hank's arm reassuringly with his other foot. "I doubt I'll need to, but yes, I will." He returns his attention to the movie, but his eyes flick back to Hank's hands on his foot from time to time, as he continues exploring what kinds of touch Connor seems to enjoy the most.

The sides of his heel and the area where his achilles tendon would be, if he were human, are surprisingly sensitive; when Hank cradles his heel in his palm and sweeps his fingers around the sides, Connor's leg twitches and he gasps, barely loud enough for Hank to hear. He folds his other hand over the top of Connor's foot, massaging the up the arch and ball before wrapping his fingers around each toe in turn, gently squeezing each one. He wraps his hands around Connor's foot and presses both thumbs into the sole of it, giving him a bit more pressure, and he pushes back into Hank's hand with a low moan.

"Don't let me distract you," Hank murmurs. He sets Connor's foot down and repeats the same movements on the other, lingering a bit more in any spot that earns him a response. Connor huffs a little at Hank's comment, but doesn't reply; he presses his free foot into Hank's thigh, toes flexing against against the thick muscle as if he's a cat contentedly kneading a blanket.

Connor may have an impressive ability to focus on more than one thing at a time, but Hank's only human; he allows the film's dialogue to wash over him, only half-listening as he maps out Connor's responses to touch and pressure and the heat of his hands. He wraps a hand around Connor's ankle, slipping his fingers under the hem of his trousers; while they're tight, there's just enough stretch in them to allow Hank's fingertips to graze Connor's calf, which tenses under his touch. 

"Everything okay, still?" he asks.

"Yes," Connor says, and though the difference is slight, he sounds slightly less composed than before. "You know I like your hands."

"I do know that," Hank says, rolling his knuckles along the arch of his foot. "Oh wait, this part's important." 

It isn't the end of the film, the moment where the mystery's final puzzle piece falls into place and the full scope of it is revealed, but it's close; he's teasing Connor, a little, by reminding him not to get distracted, but he does genuinely want him to see what happens. 

"You still multitasking okay?" Hank murmurs. "I wouldn't want you to miss anything."

"Of course," Connor says, and then, because Hank's hands have stilled briefly, he presses his foot against them and says, "keep going. Please."

Hank's already learned that he enjoys giving Connor what he wants, when he asks for it; even so, the low pulse of arousal that thrums through him at Connor's request surprises him, a little. He wants Connor to keep asking for more, wants to say yes to him as many times as he can; for the moment, he says it with the warm pressure of his hands against Connor's feet, his ankles, his calves. He glances at Connor's LED out of the corner of his eye, watching for and then focusing on the ways he can touch him that make it flash erratically or shift into yellow for a moment before Connor blinks and composes himself. 

It takes longer, by small degrees, for Connor to redirect his focus to the screen each time Hank finds a spot that draws his attention away from it, and he can't help but feel a smug sense of pride as Connor finds it harder and harder to keep his attention from straying. 

"Here we go," Hank says, as the final scene begins. He raises one of Connor's feet from his lap, bending his knee and raising it as if to get a closer look. "Don't blink, or you'll miss it."

"What are—ah!" Connor gasps, his foot jerking in Hank's hand at the soft brush of his beard over the sensitive underside.

"Eyes on the screen, honey," Hank says. "You're multitasking, remember?" He waits until Connor stubbornly returns his focus to the television to press a gentle kiss to the same spot.

"H-Hank!"

"Too much?"

"No," Connor says, shakily. "It's not." 

"I wouldn't want to draw your attention from the narrative," Hank says, in between kisses, "at such an important moment."

"I'm fine," Connor says, pointedly keeping his attention on the movie. He doesn't turn to look at Hank, and doesn't say anything further as the scene reaches its climax, but his hands are restless, fiddling with the hem of his shirt and tightening reflexively each time Hank brushes his lips over another sensitive spot.

There's a part of Hank that wants to find out exactly what he would have to do to command Connor's attention entirely when he's doing his best not to be distracted; at what point does his ability to handle multiple forms of stimulus at once break down? What would it take for Connor to focus only on the pleasure Hank can give him?

Now isn't the time to find this answer, he knows; he doesn't want to push Connor any farther than this without talking about it first. But Hank does his best to see if he can get Connor's eyes to flick back over to him, if he can wring any more sounds out of his barely-parted lips, in the last ten minutes before the movie's end.

He almost manages it; there's a moment when Connor's breath catches on an inhale and his foot twitches in Hank's hands, but that's the biggest reaction he's able to wring out of him until the credits roll.

Before Hank can ask Connor what he thought of it — or apologize, if it turned out he took things a little too far — Connor presses his foot to Hank's chest and pushes him back, down onto the couch. It's not a kick, just pressure, but Connor's strong enough that while Hank isn't inclined to resist him, he wonders if he'd even be able to if he tried. He's noticed Connor's strength before, but he hadn't quite considered, before this moment, the fact that he might be able to pin him completely.

"Uh," Hank says, awkwardly sprawled back on the couch, as Connor slips his foot out of Hank's grip and climbs over top of him. "Everything okay?" 

"I need you to understand," Connor says, kneeling between Hank's thighs and laying a hand flat on his sternum to hold him in place while he leans down to murmur in his ear, "how difficult it was to pay attention to anything other than your hands and your mouth." 

"Sorry if I took things too far," Hank starts to say, but Connor makes a sharp, frustrated sound and kisses Hank before he can finish his thought, moaning messily into his mouth as he slots his thighs between Hank's and presses their bodies together.

"You didn't—" He kisses Hank again, reaching under his head to tangle his fingers in his half-undone ponytail and hold him tightly in place. "You didn't go too far," he says, "but you have to understand how aroused I am right now."

"From just a footrub?"

"It isn't that," he says. "Not only that, at least; I can't pretend you touching me like that didn't contribute to the state I'm in. But you're so handsome tonight, Hank, and I've been anticipating this time with you so much, it feels like the desire in me is boiling over. And you — " Connor tugs Hank's hair very lightly, just a tightening of his fist, but it sends a jolt of electricity down Hank's spine. "I don't think you understand how attractive I find you," he says.

"I mean, it seems pretty clear," Hank replies, like it's a joke; even with Connor obviously horny as hell and pinning him to the couch, which is a good sign he is indeed into Hank and what he has going on, physically, it's hard for him to take a compliment. Especially when the last time he ever tried to date someone, he was significantly younger and in better shape than he is now; even if Connor appreciates him the way he is, he can't help but wish he could offer him the Hank he used to be, who he'd surely like even more.

Connor just looks at him for a moment, his dark eyes wide and soft. "You say that, but I still don't think you understand," he says. "Can I touch you?" 

"Yeah, I—christ, Connor, you can do anything you want, right now."  _ Be quiet _, Hank tells himself. _Don't ruin it_. But there's a discomfort prickling under his skin at the look in Connor's eyes, in the feeling of his body clumsy and heavy underneath Connor's hand-sculpted perfection, that pushes the rest of what he's thinking out of his mouth. "I just—I wish I had more to offer, here." 

"I like what's on offer now," Connor says stubbornly. His hand on Hank's chest goes wandering, brushing over his nipples before sliding over the soft curve of his stomach and down to his thigh, which he kneads gently. "Mm, you feel good," he murmurs. "I've thought a lot about touching you. Nowhere in particular, even, just enjoying the feel of your body. Your warmth." 

"Let me be clear: all of you, all of this," Connor says, giving Hank's thigh a squeeze and releasing his hair to brush a thumb over the crow's feet at the corner of his eyes, "is appealing to me." He tugs at the hem of Hank's shirt. "Let me see you."

"Yeah, okay," Hank says. "Do you want to go to the bedroom, so we'll have more space? I kind of take up most of this couch by myself."

Connor kisses Hank again, slipping his hand beneath Hank's shirt as if he's too eager to wait until it comes off. "I like the thought of being in your bed," he says.

"You gotta get off me first, then," Hank says, shifting beneath him. Connor frowns, which Hank thinks shouldn't be as fucking cute as it is, but gets up and pulls Hank up after him, leading him to the bedroom without letting go of his hands.

"Why are you leading me through my own house?"

"It's a one-bedroom home," Connor says breezily. "I think I know where I'm going."

Still, he stops at the open doorway, as if he's hesitant to step inside as confidently as he pulled Hank down the hall.

"Are you a vampire now? Do I need to invite you in?" Hank settles his hands low on Connor's hips and nudges him towards the bed, grateful to his past self for tidying the room up enough that he isn't too embarrassed to let Connor see it. "Don't be shy, the bed's not gonna bite you."

Connor sits on the edge of the bed and taps one of Hank's shirt buttons with his fingernail. "Take this off for me?? He slips the button free. "Unless you'd rather I do it for you."

"No, I can—" Hank fumbles at the buttons, feeling clumsy and awkward and somehow, despite everything Connor's said, uneasy about showing more of himself to him.

_I gotta get over myself at some point_ , he thinks. _May as well do it now._

Connor watches intently as Hank unbuttons his shirt at what he hopes is a reasonable pace; he doesn't want to be any clumsier than he already feels, so he doesn't rush, but he has no interest in turning it into a striptease and drawing out the process. He shrugs it off his shoulders, draping it over the chair behind him, and faces Connor in just his undershirt, very aware of how snug it is. "This too?" he asks, plucking at the fabric clinging to his chest.

"I'd like that," Connor says, "but not if you're uncomfortable."

For a moment, Hank's caught off guard by Connor stepping so carefully; he's put plenty of effort into looking out for Connor's boundaries and comfort level, so far, but it feels odd to have that same effort turned back on himself. 

He feels a sudden, unwelcome flash of resentment that Connor might think he needs a gentle hand, but it dies as quickly as it comes; it isn't like he's feeling particularly confident at the moment. He'll be fine, he knows, once they get into whatever it is that Connor has in mind, but it isn't fair for him to be annoyed that Connor's picked up on how he's feeling.

"I'm not uncomfortable," Hank says, "but I'm still getting used to how excited you are to see all this."

"It might be easier to adjust to if you'll allow me to show you directly," Connor says, and he throws in a cheeky wink that Hank's completely unable to resist. 

Hank peels off his undershirt, throws it in the general direction of the other shirt, and steps towards the bed. Before he can climb in next to Connor, he grabs Hank's forearms and hauls him down so that he lands fully on top of him, pressing him into the mattress.

"Don't let me crush you," Hank says, but Connor holds him still when he tries to roll to the side.

"Maybe I want to be crushed," he says. "You can't hurt me like this, though. I can handle sustained pressure up to five hundred pounds with no discomfort, and as I expected, I find your weight on top of me comforting."

"Comforting," Hank repeats.

"You're warm, and there's—" Connor wraps his arms around Hank's bare back, sighing as his palms make contact. "There's so much of you. I like that you're bigger than me."

"Guess I shouldn't be surprised," Hank says. He nuzzles beneath Connor's jaw until he shifts his head to bare his neck, then kisses his way down to his shoulder. "You talk about my big hands often enough."

"I do love your hands," Connor says, dreamily. "But I'm interested in the rest of you right now, if I can still touch you." 

"Go for it," Hank says, realizing as he does that it's possibly the least-sexy way to consent. "Do you—should we talk about what you're in the mood for tonight, first? So you don't feel like things are too much all of a sudden, like before?"

"Lucky for you, I can do both at once, as we've already established," Connor says, rolling them both so they're lying side by side in the bed. He smooths his palm down Hank's arm, interlacing his fingers with Hank's for a moment. "I hope it's all right that I'm still a little unsure about what I feel ready for. I can tell you so many things I want, in an abstract but very real sense, but to know if I want them now, if it feels safe enough...I'm not sure."

"Hey, if you don't feel safe," Hank says, alarmed, but Connor shakes his head.

"This feels safe. You feel safe. I'm not sure how to explain it, but I don't know if I feel secure enough in myself to allow it." He tentatively places his hand in the middle of Hank's chest, combing his fingertips through the silver hair there. "Sometimes..." He trails off.

"Sometimes?"

Connor huffs out a short, bitter laugh. 

"I have you half naked in bed, asking what I'm interested in sexually, and while I could tell you in great detail how much I've contemplated oral sex with you, in either role, all I can think about is how I'm not sure I can handle that much pleasure at all." He buries his face in Hank's chest, muffling his next words. "Or if I should even be allowed to experience it."

"Connor—" 

"And now I'm ruining the mood, and I'm not sure if I'm self-sabotaging because I'm afraid. or if I just don't know how to do all of this"—he waves his hand to encompass the two of them, the bed, Hank's home—"properly at all." He's talking faster, gripping Hank's bicep as if he's worried they'll be ripped apart if he lets go. "I want to do everything right and enjoy myself and please you and I've messed up somewhere." 

"Hey, hey, okay," Hank murmurs, wrapping his arms around Connor. "Just breathe for a sec, or. Uh. Sorry, I don't know how to help you calm down. It's deep breathing for us, but..."

"It works a little," Connor says, and Hank feels the deep, slow expansion of his chest pressing against him.

"Okay, good. Keep doing that." 

Hank pets Connor's hair for a moment, trying to figure out the right thing to say, but at some point he knows he needs to just open his mouth and start talking, because the perfect thing will never come. 

"I get the feeling you're an overthinker," he says. "Stands to reason that if you have a fancy high-powered brain that can handle a bunch of shit at once, it might be easy to point all that power towards turning one thing over and over in there until it becomes a big fucking mess."

"You could say that," Connor says, face pressed back into Hank's chest. 

"I don't want to assume anything about how you're feeling, but I know a lot about feeling like I don't deserve the good shit in my life. Like I shouldn't be allowed to have any of it at all. Sometimes it's easier to keep believing that than to think maybe I'm allowed to feel good about something once in a while."

"Oh," Connor says. "Yes, that sounds familiar."

Hank kisses Connor's temple, where the frantic flashing of his LED from a moment ago has faded to a slow, pulsing yellow. "From where I'm standing, you deserve every good goddamn thing you can get your hands on. I think you should be allowed as much pleasure as your body can give you, if that's what you want."

"But," he says, cupping Connor's cheek in one hand, "I get that me saying all this shit to you doesn't mean it's all better. You said it before though, right? If we're both a mess, we can be messy together. You aren't ruining the mood, and you don't need to get things right the first time."

"Thank you," Connor says, leaning into Hank's hand and kissing his palm. "That helped, I think." He kisses Hank's hand again, mouthing at the base of his fingers. "Is it odd that I'd like to continue? I know you said I haven't spoiled the atmosphere, but if—" 

"Not odd at all," Hank says. "I just told you it was okay to enjoy yourself, so you wanting to go ahead and do just that is kind of the point."

Connor smiles at that, but he still feels a little tense, slightly stiff in Hank's arms; he tilts Connor's chin up and kisses him gently, cupping the back of Connor's head in his hand and carding his fingers through his hair as he relaxes into Hank's embrace.

"There you go," Hank murmurs. "That feel good?"

"Up until the point where you stopped kissing me, yes."

"I don't need to stop," Hank says. "You want to just make out for a little bit?" He nips at Connor's earlobe and the sound Connor makes in response, low and hot and unashamed, goes straight to his groin. He hadn't forgotten the fucking incredible noises Connor had made the last time they were together like this, but his memory couldn't hold a candle to the raw experience of hearing it for himself. "Jesus christ," he groans, suddenly very aware that Connor's tucked his leg neatly between Hank's thighs, as if asking him to rut against it, "the fucking sounds you make."

"I want to hear you, too," Connor says. "I want—" he trails off, surging forward to kiss Hank messily, and Hank gets so lost in the feel of it he almost forgets Connor'd said anything at all. 

Almost, but when they pull apart for a moment, Hank asks, "what were you going to say, a moment ago?"

"It's harder to ask, in the moment, than I expected," Connor admits. "It was easier to ask about your masturbation habits over the phone, when you weren't right in front of me." 

"I can go in the other room if you want," Hank says. "Give you a call while you let me know what you're thinking." It's a silly suggestion, and he doubts Connor would take him up on it, but he's willing to, if it'll make it easier.

"I don't want you to stop touching me," Connor protests. "That's easy to say, at least."

"Okay, and what else?" Hank rests a hand low on Connor's back, where his shirt's gotten rucked up, and the touch of his fingertips on Connor's bare skin makes him gasp in surprise. "More of that, maybe?" He nips at Connor's ear again. "It's okay if you don't want to talk about it, but I get the feeling you have something on your mind, and if you want something from me, if there's anything I can do to make you feel good, I'd love to hear it."

"I want to kiss you more," Connor says; once he begins, the words tumble out in a rush. "All over. I want to know where you're sensitive, and if I can—if I can bite you, leave a mark on you that shows I was there. I want to take off the rest of your clothes and admire you, and I want to see you masturbate. I want to watch you give yourself pleasure while I tell you the other things I'd like to do, even if I'm not ready for them all, just yet." He arches his back, pressing against Hank's hand and rubbing his thigh pointedly against Hank's half-hard cock. "Please."

Hank groans and rolls his hips to meet Connor's thigh. "Fuck," he says, "yeah. All of that." It might mean putting himself on display more than he's used to, but Connor's been clear about wanting to look; at some point he has to accept that Connor finds him desirable, no matter what his self-doubt might say. "You want any hints, or do you just want to go exploring on your own?"

Connor twists in Hank's arms, shifting his weight to roll him over and pin him to the bed. He had said, earlier, that he found Hank's weight on him comforting; now, with their positions reversed, Hank finds it exhilarating. 

"I'm capable of scanning your body's reactions to stimuli in detail; I can monitor your heartrate, breathing, how much you sweat. I don't need you to tell me what you like; I can determine it for myself." He rubs the pad of his thumb over one of Hank's nipples and smiles at his sharp, startled inhale. "It would be nice to hear it anyway, though, if you'd like to share anything in particular."

"You already found the most sensitive spot," Hank says, as Connor continues to play with his nipple. "Besides that, you—oh christ—" he breaks off into a moan when Connor gives the other nipple an experimental lick, then sucks it gently. "Yeah, that's, uh. Fuck, Connor."

"What else?" Connor asks. "What do you like?"

"I mean, I'm not picky, I — you asked about biting, right?"

"I did." Connor kisses Hank's chest; he feels the soft pressure of his tongue, but no teeth. "How do you feel about it? I think I'd enjoy it quite a bit, but the makeup of my skin only allows for so much pressure; you'll have to be very careful, if it's something you want to try. I think your skin could take it beautifully, though." 

He presses two fingers to Hank's shoulder, his throat, his chest, as if picturing the marks he could leave there.

"There's an easy way to find out," Hank says, brushing his hair aside to expose more of his neck. "Why don't you use your fancy equipment to see how much I like it?" 

The fact that Connor's an android isn't something Hank tries to ignore, or forget, or that he wants him to feel ashamed of. Still, it isn't always at the forefront of his mind; it's a part of who Connor is, of course, but if they aren't talking about something directly related to past, or some other way that being an android impacts his life, Hank isn't always thinking about it. He hasn't forgotten, of course, but what he realizes very quickly, as Connor leans down to do just as Hank had asked, is that there's a stark difference between knowing Connor is an android with sophisticated analytical skills, in an abstract sort of way, and being unable to ignore the fact as all those skills are focused on his pleasure.

He isn't clinical about it; Hank doesn't feel like an experiment, like a bug pinned down for Connor to examine. He's pinned down, instead, by the pressure of Connor's palm against his chest, by the gentle scrape of teeth against his neck, and by his desire to let Connor explore his body as he pleases.

Connor's thorough; he learns, seemingly in no time at all, that Hank enjoys sharp, swift nips down the sides of his neck just fine, but that a firm bite to the meat of his shoulder or wet, sucking kisses across his chest will make him moan and curse and grab Connor's hair.

"Jesus," Hank says, finally, tugging just hard enough to interrupt Connor in his apparent quest to determine just how rough he can be with his nipples. "All right, honey, I'm gonna be sore tomorrow at this rate."

"Sorry," Connor starts to say, but Hank tugs him up for a kiss before he can get half the word out.

"Don't fucking apologize," he says. "You're doing great, you're so good."

"Ah," Connor gasps, pressing forward to kiss Hank more insistently. "Can—can you tell me again?"

Something slots into place in Hank's mind. Connor had told him he'd been programmed to crave the approval of his handler, hadn't he? If some remnants of that code are still kicking around in his brain, Hank's happy to heap as much praise on him as he can handle.

"You're so good, honey," he says. "This is just what I need. You feeling all right, still?"

"I'm impatient," Connor says. He fumbles for Hank's belt, pulling the buckle open with so much force he's half-afraid the worn leather will break entirely. "Can I take these off?"

"Sure," Hank says; he's hard enough that his pants have been uncomfortable for a while, now, and most of his hesitation about being naked has been overcome by Connor's open anticipation. 

"You want to take anything off, too? Only if you're comfortable, but. I'd love to see you."

"Oh." Connor sits back on his heels, surprised, then laughs self-consciously. "I was so focused on you, I didn't think about it. Should I be naked as well, if you're going to be?" 

"There's no 'should' about it," Hank says, hoping he's striking the right balance between his twin desires to see Connor naked and to make sure he doesn't feel pushed into anything. "I can't pretend I wouldn't like it, but it's about what feels good to you right now." He sits up and settles his hands on Connor's waist. "You're directing the action, here; what do you want?"

Connor's still for a moment, watching Hank intently; then he nods, takes Hank's hands, and guides them under his shirt. "Being naked with someone is very intimate, isn't it?"

"Can be, yeah," Hank says. "Right here, with you? Absolutely."

"I want that," Connor says. He eases his shirt out from under Hank's hands, until they're settled on his bare skin, then pulls it over his head.

Hank's thought about how attractive Connor is pretty often since they me—more often than he wanted to admit, at first—but seeing more of him, his slim, sturdy body dusted with a small constellation of moles and freckles, the gentle slope of his hip, the faintest dusting of fine hairs beneath his navel, hammers it home so hard he's speechless for the span of two breaths.

Connor was crafted to be beautiful, yes, but it's the way he inhabits the body that was made for him that draws Hank's eye. He's sure he wouldn't be half as attracted to Connor if it was someone else in there.

"Look at you," Hank says, thumbs brushing just over his hips. "How'd I land a hot guy like this, huh?"

"I wonder the same thing all the time," Connor says, and he slaps Hank's thigh gently when he laughs and rolls his eyes. "I do!" He reaches down and pops the button of Hank's pants open. "Finish helping me out of my clothes, so I can do the same for you?"

"Christ, these things are painted on you," Hank grumbles, as he tries to ease Connor's trousers down over his ass. "Why do you have such tight pants anyway?"

"Because I look good in them," Connor says, taking matters into his own hands and scooting off the bed long enough to shimmy out of them. "I'm sure you haven't been looking at them all night because you're interested in the composition of the fabric."

"You got me there," Hank says, "but shit, Connor, with this sort of view, can you blame me?" He holds a hand up questioningly as Connor settles back over his thighs, waiting to make contact until Connor gives him a shy nod.

If he's being honest with himself, what Hank wants right now is to map out every square inch of Connor's body with his mouth, to make him come so hard he does reboot or shut down or whatever it is he's worried might happen, but in a way that doesn't scare him this time. It's so much easier to focus his desire outward than to be that focal point for Connor. But what he wants more than that, he thinks, as he brushes his palm over the soft curve of Connor's thigh and watches his eyes soften and his mouth go slack, is to give Connor whatever he wants in this moment.

"Gorgeous," Hank murmurs. "You want to do the honors, or should I?" He reaches for his zipper, but Connor bats his hand away before he can manage to get there.

"I'll take care of it, thank you," he says, a little fussily, and eases the zipper down.

Hank doesn't have the kind of ass suited to painted-on pants—which he probably shouldn't say to Connor in case he tries to convince him otherwise—so it's a much easier task for Connor to pull everything off, until he gets halfway down Hank's thighs and freezes. 

"You all right there?" Hank asks.

Connor makes a small, strangled sound and licks his lips.

Hank can't resist the urge to reach down and wrap his hand around his cock, partly to ease the ache that's been building in him all evening and partly to give Connor a little bit of what he'd said he wanted. "Is this what you were hoping to see?"

"Oh, Hank," Connor murmurs reverently. "Yes, it—yes."

"You going to get my clothes the rest of the way off, or am I stuck like this for the rest of the night?"

"Ah! Sorry," Connor says, fumbling a bit as he unceremoniously yanks Hank's pants and underwear the rest of the way down his legs and deposits them on the floor. "It's very distracting."

"What, this?" Hank gives himself a slow stroke; he's not fully hard yet, but he's nearly there, and the heat of Connor's gaze and the sight of him naked and lovely above him is going to take care of the rest soon enough.

"Seeing all of you," Connor says. "But yes, I can't deny being a bit fixated on—it's a lot to take in."

"Not too much?"

"I don't think so," Connor says. His hands settle on Hank's thighs, squeezing gently and rubbing up to his hips and back down in a slow, steady motion; this touch alone is enough to make Hank hiss and roll his hips up to meet the downstroke of his hand on his cock.

Connor falls silent, his LED flickering wildly as he stares, and Hank remembers what he'd said about his hands, once.

"Are you scanning my dick?"

Connor startles like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. "Do you not want me to?"

"No, it's—it's a compliment, I guess. Just not something I'm used to."

"When I think about you, it's arousing to know these details, to be able to picture more clearly what you'd feel like."

"When you think about me, huh? Didn't you say you were going to tell me some of that while I, uh, while I do my best to put on a show for you?"

"I don't want a show," Connor says, "if thinking of it as a performance makes things more difficult. What I want is to see you bringing yourself pleasure in whatever way you like."

A minor difference, perhaps, but Hank thinks he understands the distinction Connor's making, and he appreciates it. He doesn't know how to act sexy, but he knows how to get himself off. 

"You comfy up there?" Hank asks; he knows he'd be miserable kneeling like that for long, but Connor isn't working with fifty-year-old human knees, so perhaps he doesn't mind. Still, he pats the rumpled duvet next to him. "You could settle down here by me if that sounds better." 

"I might," Connor says, "but I'm enjoying the view from here, for now." He presses a warm palm to Hank's broad thigh as if he's steadying himself, although Hank's sure his balance is just fine without it. "Can you—" Connor's fingers flex as if he's holding back an urge to touch. 

Hank's hand stills when Connor fails to finish his thought. "What is it? I'll do anything for you right now, Connor, you just gotta ask."

"Keep going, please." Connor's voice is hoarse, almost a whisper. "Show me how to touch you the way you like."

"And you're going to tell me what else you want, right? What you've been thinking about?"

"I want to, yes," Connor says, "but I hardly know where to begin. There's so much, I..." he trails off when Hank starts stroking himself again, and Hank can't help but laugh at the way his mouth falls open a bit. 

"You're easy to distract tonight, huh?" Hank says. He's just teasing himself, really, not gripping his cock firmly at all; for how, he strokes himself gently, just enough to build anticipation, and enjoys the hot flush of arousal he feels building beneath his skin as Connor watches him with an intensity he's never seen from a partner before. 

"I suppose I am," Connor says, "but you're so—you look incredible like this."

"It's a hell of a compliment, but weren't you bragging about your multitasking talents earlier?" Hank rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing the precome that's beading there, and has the thought of shoving his thumb into Connor's mouth to see if he'd enjoy the taste. He would, surely, but that isn't what they're doing right now; he files the thought away for later, but considering the flash of pink tongue he sees behind Connor's lips, as if he's holding himself back from bending down to give Hank a lick, he wonders if Connor has the same idea. "Are you going to tell me one old man touching his dick is enough to defeat your big expensive brain?"

"No, I—I'm fine," Connor protests. "And don't call yourself old."

Hank has the urge to argue, to tell Connor there's no use pretending he's not, but there's no use arguing about it during sex—or whatever this is—with him, either. "Okay," he says. "If you're fine, what did you want to tell me about?"

"I—" Connor huffs out a nervous laugh. "This is more difficult than I'd expected it would be. I thought that since I've given so much thought to the sexual experiences I'd like to share with you, it would be a simple matter to describe those thoughts to you."

Hank decides to throw Connor a bone; maybe he's overstepping, but he suspects it'll be welcome. "A few minutes ago you mentioned thinking about blowjobs a lot, didn't you?"

"Oh. Yes, I—I did mention that."

"You want to tell me a little about that?" Hank grips himself a little tighter. "Because I sure as fuck want to hear about it." 

"It's so erotic to consider the act of entering your body with mine," Connor says. "I'm not sure how to explain it, but just the thought of you being willing to take part of me inside you like that is arousing on its own, even if I didn't think it would feel like much at all." 

"Fuck, Connor," Hank groans. "I promise you'll be able to feel it. I'd make you feel so good if you let me."

"Is that something you enjoy?" Connor asks, as if Hank's cock didn't pulse and jump in his hand at the thought of sucking him off. "I hope it's all right, but I—I want you to desire me in this way, to be as aroused by the thought of taking me into your mouth as I am." He rubs his hands together, as if he isn't sure what he's allowed to do with them.

"Of course it's all right," Hank says. "You should know how fucking much I want to do that for you. Just say the word and I'll get my mouth on you whenever you want. You want to pull on my hair while I blow you?"

This gets Connor's attention. "You'd enjoy that?"

Hank reaches up with his free hand and grabs a handful of his hair to demonstrate. "Yeah. Not too hard, but a nice tug or two, to make sure I'm giving you the attention you deserve or to hold me in place a little bit if you want, that's all good." He flexes his fist and pulls, to demonstrate how firmly he likes it. "You'll have me moaning around your dick in a second if you do that." 

"You like it that much?"

"I like the thought of sucking you off that much," Hank says. He looks at Connor's cock, hard and flushed and impressively lifelike, honestly, and wants very badly to grab him by the back of his thighs and haul him forward until he's straddling Hank's chest, close enough that he can brace himself on the headboard as he presses into Hank's mouth.

Perhaps even better, Hank thinks: one of Connor's hands gripping the headboard while he buries the other in Hank's hair, holding him still when he finds the best angle to fuck into his mouth in shallow, frantic thrusts. He groans and licks his palm, slicking his hand up enough to ease some of the friction as he tightens his grip on his cock. He forces himself to slow down; Connor may not be expecting a show, but he probably doesn't want things to be over too soon, either. 

"You can touch yourself too, if you want," Hank says; Connor still looks like he doesn't know what to do with his hands, and Hank isn't sure if he's holding off on touching himself because he doesn't think it'll feel like much, or if he doesn't want to be distracted from watching. Perhaps the idea hasn't occurred to him at all. "I don't expect a performance any more than you do, but don't hold back on my account if you want to."

"Sometimes it's frustrating," Connor says. "It's clear how much pleasure you're feeling from your own hand, but if I touch myself it's..." he slides his palm up his thigh and wraps his fingers gingerly around his cock. "It's pleasant, I suppose, but it isn't—ah!"

Connor's eyes widen and his thighs tense at the first experimental pull. "That—that's a stronger sensation than I've felt before."

"Shit," Hank breathes. "How's it feel?"

Connor frowns a little, concentrating as he touches himself again; he rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, ruts against his palm, matches the pace of Hank's hand as he eagerly works his own cock beneath Connor. "I think I'm taking in enough visual stimulus from you that there's some difference in how I'm processing my own touch," he says. "It doesn't feel as good as when you touch me, but it's—" he closes his eyes, LED flashing as he changes his grip again, touching himself in different ways as if he's running down a mental checklist of masturbation tips. 

"I can't decide if I enjoy these sensations for what they are, or if this is still more frustrating than doing nothing at all," Connor says, finally. "I think I'd rather watch you, instead."

"How's the view?" Hank asks. He showboats a little, exaggerating the roll of his hips as he fucks up into his loose fist and pulling at a nipple with his other hand. "Christ, Connor, you really did a number on me here, I'm still a little sore."

"Good," Connor says, and it startles Hank into pulling a little rougher and moaning at the dull ache that radiates downward from his chest to his dick.

"Good, huh?" Hank asks. "You're glad you got that rough with me?"

"You told me not to apologize," Connor says, "so I won't. It feels good to know I had such an effect on you."

"Fuck, this is the effect you have," Hank says. His patience is fraying; he licks his palm again and jerks himself faster. "I'm hard as a goddamn rock, look at this."

"I can't look anywhere else," Connor moans. "Hank, I—I want to suck your cock."

"Yeah?"

"It's gorgeous," Connor says, and Hank briefly wonders if a switch has flipped in his brain, if he's reached some level of confidence or arousal or a need to see Hank lose his fucking mind that tripped a wire in there, because once he starts talking about Hank's dick he doesn't seem to be able to stop. 

"I've calculated it," Connor says, "how wide I'd have to open my mouth to take you in." He lets his mouth fall slack, jaw dropping a couple inches, then spreads two fingers wide and slides them inside, dragging them over the soft landscape of his tongue. His eyes flutter shut once his lips touch his knuckles; he moans softly and Hank sees his cheeks hollow as he sucks.

"I want to feel it," Connor says, once he removes his spit-slick fingers from his mouth, "the stretch of my mouth around you. The weight of your cock on my tongue, the press and heat of it, thev" Connor presses his hands to his face, covering his eyes, as if he's to embarrassed or overcome to continue.

"Sweetheart, look at me," Hank pants. "You don't want to miss anything, do you?"

"No," Connor says, "I don't, but I'm—" he climbs out from between Hank's legs and lies down beside him, almost close enough to touch. "Can I have your other hand?"

Hank presses it between Connor's palms.

"Keep going, please," Connor says, almost a whisper. "You look incredible like this."

Hank has no intention of stopping; he feels flushed and sweaty more than incredible, but it's a relief to know he isn't disappointing Connor.

"You want—fuck—you want me to fill your mouth?"

"Yes, I want to—I want to be filled completely, I want to be overcome by the feel of it, I want the taste of your pre-ejaculate to bloom over my tongue, I want to feel the cascade of data as my sensors process the essence of your arousal, I—" Connor brings Hank's hand to his mouth and kisses his fingertips. "I can't decide if I want you to come in my mouth, or..."

Hank nearly shouts when Connor sucks two of his fingers into his mouth, curling his soft tongue around and between them. "I'm close," he groans. His thighs are tense, almost shaking, as he plants his feet on the bed to give himself more leverage to rut up into his fist. The slick heat of Connor's mouth is more than he can bear on top of everything else, a tease and a promise and so goddamn wet Hank thinks he's going to lose his mind.

Connor lets Hank's fingers slip out of his mouth long enough to tell him to let go, that he wants to see him come, and then he's sucking them back in, adding a third so Hank can see his lips stretch around them.

It's too much. Connor's low moans reverberate through Hank's hand and arm to his chest, joining the waves of pleasure radiating from his groin. He bites his lip and groans as he comes, a shaky exhale joined by Connor's overstimulated whine around his fingers. Hank keeps touching himself as long as he can bear it, slicking his way with his own come as he pulls gently at his cock until he's too sensitive for more.

"Holy shit," he mumbles, finally. "That was—fuck." He turns to look at Connor, who's watching him with wide-eyed fascination. His LED is yellow, flashing in an insistent pulse. "Everything okay?"

"Fantastic," Connor says, still staring at Hank's softening cock and the mess he'd made of his hand and belly as if he's had some kind of spiritual awakening. "That was beautiful." 

Hank wonders if he could ever get used to Connor telling him things like this; he isn't sure he'll ever feel like being called beautiful, even indirectly, makes much sense, but he likes the thought of hearing it often enough that it starts to sink in a little.

"How can I take care of you?" he asks, rolling over and cupping Connor's cheek with the hand that isn't covered in his own come. He's going to have to go clean up in a moment, but he refuses to be the sort of guy who wanders off the moment he gets off, without taking care of his partner as well; even if Connor doesn't want to come, still, there has to be something he can do for him.

"This was perfect," Connor says. "I have a lot of new information to process, and I think I'd like to just stay close, for a bit."

"You want to cuddle?"

"If that's all right."

"'Course it's all right," Hank says. He leans in to give Connor a quick kiss. "I need to go wash up first before everything, uh, dries off, you want to come with? My shower's big enough for two people."

"No thank you," Connor says. "I don't need showers very often." He turns his head and kisses Hank's palm. "I'll wait for you here."

It stings a little bit, more than Hank thinks it should; he'd liked the idea of Connor in the shower with him, keeping close under the hot spray, kissing messily as the steam rose around them, helping Hank soap himself up. He isn't going to push, though; if Connor needs some space, after what happened, it won't help to take that away from him. Maybe it's not about Hank at all; maybe Connor just doesn't enjoy showers, or he's comfy in bed, or something else. It's not worth fussing over, he tells himself. 

Hank kisses Connor again before rolling out of bed. He lingers at the door for a moment, turning back to take in the sight of Connor in his bed. "I won't be long," he says, and Connor responds with a soft smile and a little wave of his fingers.

Hank does his best to shower quickly, so Connor isn't kept waiting; even so, he has enough time alone with his own thoughts to wonder if everything's all right. He feels like a baby with no object permanence; the moment he's away from Connor, it's so easy to imagine any number of things he's done or could do 

that might fuck things up between them. Connor had said he'd stay over if Hank asked, but—if he needs a moment to himself now, maybe he'll want to go home after they cuddle a bit. Maybe it would be easier if he didn't ask, to save Connor the task of declining gracefully. 

"Calm the fuck down," he mutters under his breath, turning the water hot enough to scald his shoulders as he scrubs himself clean. "He just said things were good. He enjoyed himself."

TRY TO DESERVE HIM catches his eye from its place on the mirror as he quickly dries himself off. 

"I'm trying," he tells the post-it. "God knows I'm trying."

Connor has a concerned frown on his face when Hank re-enters the bedroom, and he braces himself for the worst.

"You wanted me to take a shower with you," Connor says.

"I thought it might be nice," Hank replies, suddenly worried he'd misstepped somehow by asking at all. "It's fine that you didn't want to, though."

"I didn't quite think it through," Connor admits. "It's true that I don't need to keep clean in the same way you do, and that showers aren't the most efficient way to clean myself off when I do need it, but you weren't asking me because you thought I needed to clean up, were you?"

"Nah," Hank shrugs. "Figured we could soap each other up and make out until the hot water ran out."

"I'm sorry I missed out on it," Connor says. "I realized what you were asking once 

you'd already gotten started, but next time I'd love to join you." He pats the bed next to him. "For now, I think you should come back here. I suppose it's rude to invite you into your own bed, but I want to have you close again."

Hank fishes around in a drawer for a pair of boxers, but Connor makes a small, disappointed sound, and when Hank turns to look at him he pats the bed again.

"I'd rather have you naked, if you don't mind," Connor says, and Hank lets himself be pulled down into the tangled sheets beside him before he can overthink anything. 

"You know just what you want, huh," Hank murmurs, pulling Connor close for a kiss.

"I do." Connor wraps his arms around Hank, burying a hand in his still-damp hair and kissing him with a fervor that surprises him enough that it takes him a moment to respond. Connor nudges his lips with his tongue, and the sound he makes when Hank opens his mouth to let him in, low and content, makes Hank's toes curl.

"I want to lie with you and enjoy the feel of your body pressed against mine," Connor says, when they finally part. "You're so warm and sturdy and soft; it's comforting to be so close to you." He lifts Hank's arm, then rolls over so he's facing away from him. "Like this." He settles Hank's arm over his chest, then hums happily when Hank gets the picture and squeezes him close. "Perfect."

Hank kisses the back of Connor's neck and gets another small, pleased sound in return. He settles his hand just above Connor's navel, rubbing his fingertips in small arcs and circles over his soft skin. "Did you still want to stay the night?"

"Are you asking me to?"

Hank kisses Connor's shoulder. "Yeah. Will you?" 

"I'd love to," Connor murmurs. "I like knowing you want me here. I do have to be at the garden early tomorrow, but I can get up quietly and take a cab home without disturbing your sleep too much."

"Yeah, that's not happening," Hank says. "I'll take you home, it's fine."

"But it's your weekend," Connor protests. "You should rest."

Hank sighs and kisses the back of Connor's head. "I don't always sleep that well, to be honest," he says. "Half the time I'm awake early and can't get back to sleep anyway."

"If you're sure," Connor says. "It would be sweet of you."

"Well, that's what I want," Hank says. He slides his hand up Connor's sternum and holds it over the center of his chest, feeling the faint thrumming of life beneath his skin. "To get up ass-early, if need be, and be sweet to you."

They lie in silence, for a while. It isn't that late, and the lights are all still on, but Hank's relaxed, and Connor is a warm and comforting presence in his arms, and he finds himself dozing a little, off and on. Mostly, though, he holds his hand over the pulse of whatever it is that Connor has instead of a heart, and kisses his hair and the back of his neck, and breathes in the soft, barely-there scent of him.

"Is it really okay," Hank asks, after a while, "that I didn't get you off or anything? That's—that was what you wanted?"

"Just what I wanted," Connor says. He turns in Hank's arms and nuzzles into his neck, kissing along his jawline. "I'm still taking everything in, I suppose. Still getting used to the thought of experiencing so much sensation, of losing myself to it. It doesn't cause me discomfort to be aroused but not achieve orgasm, like I imagine it would for you."

"So you don't get blueballed," Hank snorts. "Huh."

"Not like humans do, no. There's still a release that isn't happening, of course, but..." he combs his fingers through Hank's chest hair and smiles at Hank's sharp inhale when his thumb brushes Hank's nipple. "I love how sensitive you are here." He bends down and gives it a brief, gentle kiss. "It's easy to get distracted, having you so close like this, but what I mean to say is that what we shared tonight was very sexually satisfying for me. I'd hate for you to think anything else." 

"As long as it was good for you," Hank says, "I'm happy. And I'm in no rush at all, but the moment you want something more, or something different, I hope you'll tell me."

"You'll know," Connor says. He kisses the faded center of Hank's tattoo. "When the time comes, you'll know." 

Something warm settles in Hank's chest, at that; it sounds like the sort of thing you say when you're planning on sticking around for a while, and it's a comfort to hear, even if he's reading too much into it. It's enough. for the moment, to know Connor's happy to stay with him for the night, that he's satisfied with the time they've spent together, that he'll let Hank take him home in the morning like he wants to do.

It's easy, with Connor, to think of things he wants to do for him. He can take care of himself, that much is clear, but there's a difference between taking care of oneself and being cared for, and Hank wants Connor to experience the latter, as well. Whether Hank deserves to be the one to do it or not remains to be seen, but he isn't going to pass up an opportunity when one's presented to him.

Eventually, Hank feels silly lying half-asleep in bed with the lights on, so he extracts himself from Connor's embrace long enough to brush his teeth and let Sumo out one last time before bed. Connor gives him an exaggerated pout when he pulls on an old bathrobe, but Hank refuses to go out in the backyard bare-ass naked both because he doesn't want to alarm the neighbors and because the nights are still cool enough, this time of year, that he'd probably freeze his balls off without something at least marginally covering them.

"You want something to wear to bed?" Hank asks, once Sumo's settled for the night. "Nothin' fancy, but I'm sure I have something that would be comfy enough to sleep in." He grimaces and waves his hand awkwardly. "Or do your, uh, what do you—stasis. When you do that."

"It's all right to call it sleeping," Connor says, with a laugh. "It serves a similar purpose. It's been nice to be naked with you, but I like the thought of wearing your clothes, as well; if there's something you wouldn't mind me borrowing for the night, I'd be happy to wear it."

"Of course I don't mind," Hank says, rummaging through his disorganized dresser drawers for something Connor could wear. He eventually digs out an old pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt from the 2032 Detroit Jazz Festival that are both a little threadbare but extremely soft; they're too big, of course, but Connor insists that this makes them more comfortable, and he's at least able to tie the drawstring on the pants tight enough so they don't immediately slide off.

"You look cute," Hank says, because he doesn't know how to explain the way his breath hitches, a little bit, at the sight of Connor in his clothes. He isn't sure it's something he should say yet at all, how good it feels to see Connor so relaxed in something of Hank's, like he belongs here in bed with him.

"So do you," Connor says, once Hank's pulled on his own sleeping clothes, and Hank can't help but roll his eyes and laugh a little, because even if Connor is attracted to him, there's no way Hank's making a worn pair of gray sweatpants and a tight undershirt "cute."

"Uh-huh," he says, as he turns out the light. "I'm not sure about that."

"I am," Connor says. "I think you should listen to me." 

"Well, if you think so," Hank says, as he slides into bed, "I guess I'm in no mood to argue."

"Good." Connor rolls over and into Hank's arms, resting his head on his shoulder and sighing happily when Hank combs his fingers through his hair. "Sooner or later, I'll train you not to protest at all when I compliment you."

Hank kisses Connor's forehead. "I'll warn you, it might be an uphill battle. I've never been good at taking compliments."

"All the more reason to give you extra practice," Connor says smoothly, but he's kind enough to let the matter drop after that.

"You need me to set an alarm for tomorrow?" Hank asks. 

"I'm able to set a specific time to emerge from stasis, and I'll wake you up then; you don't need to set an alarm on my behalf."

"I'll leave it in your hands, then," Hank says. He yawns, suddenly much more tired than he'd realized. "If I'm going to be up early, though, I may as well try and get to sleep pretty soon."

"Are you comfortable like this?" Connor asks. "I like the thought of you holding me as you sleep, but if it's harder to fall asleep this way, I'm happy to move."

"Nah, this is good," Hank says. "I move around a lot sometimes, so we probably won't wake up this way, but I'm good like this for now." He trails his fingertips down Connor's arm. "I haven't had someone in bed with me like this for a long time. Forgot how much I like it."

"I'm glad you wanted me here," Connor says quietly. "I hope you sleep well, Hank."

"Thanks, honey," Hank says, with one final kiss. "You too. Do you just decide to drop off and that's it? Or does it take a while like it does for me?"

"I can enter stasis whenever I want," Connor says. "I'll probably wait until I know you're asleep, though; I won't breathe or move much, and that can be unsettling."

"As long as I know that's normal, it's fine," Hank says, but he likes the thought of Connor staying awake until he falls asleep, for reasons he can't quite articulate, so he doesn't put up much of a fuss.

As tired as he is, Hank doesn't close his eyes immediately. Connor's weight against his side prickles at his awareness; he's so unused to having anyone near him in bed that his mind's taking longer than normal to quiet down. It's a good feeling, though, to have him there, comforting in a way Hank's not used to. It's strange, he thinks, how natural so many things with Connor feel; as unexpected as this relationship has been and as new as it is—even taking into account his own bullshit worries about himself and whether he's going to fuck something up between them—it never feels stressful, in the moment, to spend time with him. The worry or hesitation he feels never comes from Connor himself.

"Is it weird?" he asks aloud, a low whisper in the quiet room. "How easy this feels?"

"How what feels?" Connor shifts in Hank's arms, turning to peer up at his face. There's just enough light, from the faint glow of the streetlamps outside and the soft blue pulse of his LED, to make out the questioning curve of his brow. 

"This," Hank says, tightening his arm around Connor. "Us. It's—maybe I shouldn't say this so soon, but I just—" he reaches over and takes Connor's hand. "This feels right, doesn't it?"

Connor squeezes Hank's hand. "I don't have any prior experience to compare our relationship to," he says, speaking like he's choosing his words carefully, "so I couldn't say whether the way you feel is weird or not. But if it's too soon to feel this comfortable with you, or to trust you as much as I do, then I must be as weird as you are." 

Connor raises Hank's hand to his lips. "It does feel right," he murmurs, kissing Hank's knuckles in turn. "I hardly know what I'm doing, but I feel safe with you, even so."

He says it so calmly, so confidently, that it takes a moment for Hank to feel the weight of it. How often has Connor ever felt safe around other people?

He's not going to cry because Connor trusts him, Hank thinks, ignoring the prickling at the corner of his eyes. He blinks hard and exhales deeply, kissing Connor on the gentle glow of his temple. "That's good to hear, sweetheart."

"Especially like this." Connor somehow manages to press himself closer to Hank, burying his face in his chest. "Held close while you're soft and sleepy."

"I'll hold you as long as I can," Hank says, because he knows his restless sleep will interrupt their embrace before long, but as his words hang in the air, reverberating in the darkness as Hank begins the slow slide into sleep, he knows—and surely Connor knows, too—he doesn't only mean it for tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, friends! I am very behind on responding to comments, which I apologize for, but I treasure every one. ❤️


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